


Jenny's Song

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Feminist Themes, Humor, Love/Hate, Magic, Pre-Canon, Unique characterisations, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 64,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts."<br/>Elia knows there is madness swirling in Rhaegar's indigo eyes. A madness that wants to possess and control her and the realm's future.<br/>Elia's story, with some digressions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude to a Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: Mozart's B-Flat Sonata for a happy beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fanon has always been R-L and that means Elia is either ignored or made the villain. She is almost always the slinking viper, or the forward woman drooling after Rhaegar as he patiently rejects her advances for Lyanna. This fic is an alternate perspective.

The children, unashamedly naked as their name day, chased each other in the water, played pretend games in the mud, and occasionally, when tempers frayed, yelled at or hit each other. At such times Elia would play the peace-maker. 

“Nymeria, stop pushing that boy!” she yelled. Sarella giggled and dropped her horse toy on the ground again. Elia huffed and pouted, looking into the little one’s eyes. They were liquid black and impossibly moist. Sarella smiled back up, her dimples and her curly black hair making the little devil look almost angelic. She squirmed against the smooth red silk of Elia’s tunic and bit her thin gold chain. 

Oberyn slid into the terrace noiselessly, startling both of them, and extricated his fourth daughter from Elia’s lap. He wore an embroidered satin kaftan, exposing half his chest, making some of the girl servants stare. He languidly relaxed in his chair, chewing on a blood orange in his other hand. 

“All packed and ready?” he asked her.

Elia sighed reluctantly. Time flew so quickly. Her childhood already felt like a dream. Now, the Mad King had decided it time for her to marry. “Yes,” she said quietly. 

“Good, we leave at sunrise on the morrow.” Sarella seemed to whimper in protest. 

“Yes, little one,” Elia cooed at her, “but I’ll be back soon.”

Oberyn’s eyes crinkled, as he spoke to Sarella, “She’s a smooth liar, your aunt. Don’t trust beautiful women in red silks.” He looked out to the pool and saw little Tyene beating a much older girl with her palms as she yelped. “Sister, you’ve spoilt my children rotten.”

“They’re much better than you as a child.”

“You brought me up.”

Elia slapped his arm, reveling in their casual bickering. “Mother did most of the work,” she said. “Your children miss you when you’re gone,” she chided him. Oberyn was hardly ever home, spending his time riding east and around the realm, fiddling with his spear and laying with the most unlikely of women. 

Oberyn shook his head, “Sand snakes, the lot of them. They’ll manage well.”

“Nym! Oba! Ty! Come here children! Time for a bath!” she yelled. Oberyn sighed, “Good luck with that,” he quipped. Then he grinned as Sarella danced excitedly to the distant sound of one of the servants (Idris, most probably) playing the flute. “This one is all her mother, the little Summer Islander,” he remarked fondly. 

“Doran has asked us to sup with him,” she told him, wiping the smirk off his face, “He told me to add that it’s your favourite tonight, rattle snake stew.”

“All of the rattle snake stew in Dorne can’t make me sup with that old bore.”

Elia raised her eyebrows at him, but noticed Sarella’s brown eyelids gently drooping. She cupped her cheek. “Take the little one to bed, I’ll meet you at supper.”

“Aye, and I’ll ask Doran to put in a good word for the Dragon Prince. He can put the spear through your sun.” He made a vulgar action, grinning.

Elia shook her head, biting her lip to keep herself from smiling in a mix of irritation and mirth, “That does not make any sense, Oby.”

He gave her a sly smile, “Why, then how do you seek to seduce the dragon?”

She cringed, “Seduction is more your game brother.”  


“If you seek to bowl him over with your motherliness, I may have more luck than you in wooing the Dragon prince.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck.” 

He pushed up the crimson silk that had fallen down her arm gently and made his way out, Sarella nearly asleep in his arms. 

After shouting the Sand sisters’ names until she was hoarse for nearly fifteen minutes, she finally dragged them inside. Then, she asked the servants to prepare a bath. To be honest, Obara was a little too old to be bathed, but she was too hyper-active to take a bath by herself properly. Nymeria stood still, silent and thoughtful as always, as she scrubbed her, but Tyene splashed around like a drowning man, hating to be held. By the time they were done and Elia was rubbing them dry with towels, she was drenched to the bone and shivering from exertion. She kneeled on the ground, pulling Tyene near her and said, “I will be leaving on the morrow with your father. You have to be good girls.”

“Where are you going?” Nymeria asked. 

“Your father didn’t tell you?”

They shook their heads and Tyene’s lower lip trembled in anger.

“I’m going on to King’s Landing,” she began, “to marry the Dragon Prince, if all goes well-or not,” she ended awkwardly. Obara wrinkled her nose in disgust, taking after her father. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Nymeria asked, “When will you be back, aunt Elia?”

In that moment, the doors swung open and Arianne ran in, wearing only a purple cloth between her short stubby legs, barreling into her aunt’s arms. 

“Aunt Elia! Take me with you! Oberyn won’t let me come!”

“Uncle Oberyn, sweet child. No you cannot come. But I’ll tell you everything when I’m back.”

“What good is that?” she pouted. 

She sighed. She was so very tired but needed to go to supper on time. Doran would be punctual as always. 

She got up and swept Arianne off her. “Children, I’ll send Idris in. Play something. Auntie will be here after supper.” She sternly waved them goodbye, resisting Arianne’s pleas. 

She made her way to her chamber as Idris stepped into the play-room. Her soft slippers were pleasurable on the cool, smooth floors. With every step her body felt as if it would collapse. She hated her weakness, her frailty. The feeling as though she would snap at any moment. The wracking coughs that came upon her unbidden and left her delirious, blurry-eyed. It was only the joy of having children around her that distracted her from her illness, and she would no longer have that for a few months at least. Instead she would be travelling for miles and miles – away from home. The thought made her nauseous.

As she slipped into the comforting coolness of her chambers, she sighed gently. She slipped off her slippers and lay in her bed. Twenty-four years old, without a betrothed – it was near unheard of in the other Kingdoms. All of her suitors were younger than her. She would really be glad if they all rejected her. She could sit here by the Water Gardens with her brother Doran and watch the children play until she grew old. 

\----

Such peaceful notions of her future fled her imagination when she saw Oberyn sitting next to Doran, biting a piece of snake as though it were Doran’s head. Areo Hotah was standing guard next to Doran bearing his large longaxe. She hurriedly took her seat next to Doran and laid her hand on Oberyn’s arm, trying to calm him. 

“Are you putting enough of that Asshaian oil on your legs?” she asked Doran. Arianne promptly settled on her lap, moving her backside with such vigor, that it hurt. 

Oberyn saw her grimace. “Come here, Ari,” he said, but she stubbornly shook her curly head. 

“Yes,” Doran said in his usual slow, calculated manner, “But I find the warm presses work much better,” he sighed, shifting. “No matter. It is not my legs we are here to discuss. I was just telling Oberyn about the Mad King’s letter. He seems to be eager for the Dragon Prince to marry you,” he said spearing a prune, as Oberyn scowled at him, “Tywin will doubtless again try to wed Cersei to the Dragon Prince. But should you prove a worthy match, then you can marry Rhaegar and Dorne’s alliance will be secure with the throne.” Elia saw perfect sense in his argument, though it was idealistic, but Oberyn’s scowl deepened, his black Martell eyes turning into dark depths. 

“Yes, trade her like sheep Doran,” he said finally, leaning back, the spicy stew trickling own his chin. Though he jested with her in private, Elia knew Oberyn did not take kindly to her marriage to the Dragon Prince. Oberyn likely did not take kindly the notion of marriage at all. "Marriage is like tying a Sand Steed to a stable forever, when it yearns to run like the wind," he would often say. 

Elia fed Arianne some of the stew and treated herself to a blood orange. Meat of any form made her squeamish. 

Doran ignored him and said bitingly, “Try not to father any more Sands this time.” Oberyn glared at him, “My children are my family and I love them.”  
“Granted,” Elia said hastily stepping in, because Oberyn was fingering his dagger, “Has our assent reached King’s Landing, Doran?”

Doran turned to her, “Yes, it must have by now. Keep your distance from the Mad King and address him politely,” he said pointedly to Oberyn, “I trust you know what to do with Rhaegar,” he added to Elia.

“Take him for walks and charm him,” she said, her sarcasm only visible to Oberyn, who smiled. 

“I highly doubt you have much competition. Tywin Lannister is not on the king’s good side.” Doran said, as Oberyn shifted uncomfortably. Elia nodded, a sick feeling rising in her stomach.

“How could you marry her off to that family? She will be at the mercy of the Mad King and the Dragon Prince, who the gods only know, will probably turn out to be worse than him.”

“Oberyn, the King commands it,” he shook the letter calmly, “And it is partly your fault, making fun of all those suitors mother had chosen. Your bull-headedness is only ruining her life. Elia grows old and she needs love and companionship. She cannot find refuge elsewhere like you.”

Elia nodded silently. Love and companionship. The thought of King’s Landing sent a pleasurable roiling in her stomach, but not because of the Dragon Prince. Her childhood friends awaited her there. Arthur and Ashara. There were no better companions than the two skinny children she’d brawled with in the pools. Oh, what she would give to be a child again. 

“More likely its your low scheming than the King’s command, Doran. Don’t you dare think of my sister as a pawn in your schemes.”

“Oberyn,” Elia chided, but Doran cut through, “I can only plead you to not do anything to ruin Elia’s life, out of spite and shere bull-headedness-“ “That is the second time you use that word on me brother, next time-“ “Oberyn”

“Please,” Doran said, raising his voice, which he never did, enough to silence them, “I only want the best for my brother and sister. Do as I say and I wish this would prove fruitful.” Oberyn got up, slamming the goblet again. “I will do as you say Doran. But, I will make sure that Elia marries a good man, prince or mummer. She will not marry for your schemes.”

Doran nodded, “The Dragon Prince is a good man.” Oberyn glared at them for a moment and left, boots clicking on the stairs. Arianne looked up at Elia from her lap, “Will you tell me a story?” she asked. 

“Yes, my sweet. Come up, I will tell you all stories. Good night Doran. The little ones will want to see me.”

“Yes dear,” Doran said, taking her hands, “Don’t tire yourself, and get good sleep.”

“See you at dawn.”  
“See you at dawn.”

\----

At dawn, she woke up to the pleasurable smell of a young one’s skin and the not-so-pleasurable smell of the young one in question having wetted the bed. She woke up to Idris telling her that Oberyn was calling for her and that the ships were waiting. Tyene was curled up to her chest, the wet patch near her legs growing around her. Nymeria was clinging onto her back, her saliva staining Elia’s silk as she drooled on it. Obara was curled up across her waist- she’d rolled unbearably across her through the night. Arianne was nowhere to be seen. 

Elia gently shrugged off the soft, sleeping children, taking in their peaceful faces one last time. She’d regaled them with tales of Nymeria, the Rhoynish warrior princess, through half the night, most being of her own making, as she had forgotten many of the stories she’d read as a child. Never mind, the children liked her stories better because they were wilder. She smiled to herself and changed slipping into an old thick brown silk gown. She rubbed some herbs over herself, not wanting to wake the servants for a bath, though Tyene’s wetness had slightly permeated her legs. 

She stood before the mirror. Her hair was the healthiest part of her, thick waves and curls to the waist, dark as the night. She combed the strands gently with her fingers. A small, upturned nose, unremarkable eyes but with thick eyebrows that looked like an eagle’s wings and queer, (pan-like, Mellario said), small mouth. There was nothing wrong with it, but nothing remarkable either, apart from her smooth, dark-olive skin which turned truly golden in the sunlight. Her body was tiny and frail, stunted by illness, dashing her childish dreams of becoming a fighter like Oberyn early. She could barely ride a horse for an hour without nearly collapsing. She smiled at herself in the mirror, trying to cheer herself up for the journey and then left, kissing each sleeping child softly on the forehead. "A person’s worth is in the inside", Doran would always say, "mirrors lie". 

\----

Oberyn waited for her impatiently by the palace, bouncing his leg. He interrupted his chat with the Tyroshi captain to come up and take her arm, gently hoisting her onto the side-saddle. She kissed Doran farewell, noting with worry that he was wincing despite standing for only a few minutes. It was a silent trot to the docks, with Oberyn’s Sand Steed, black with a mane the colour of coal embers, rearing and neighing in frustration at their lack of speed as he chatted with the captain again. Her servants followed close, with their luggage. Idris had been left behind to take care of the children. 

A childish voice shouted at the back, “Let me go!”

Elia turned back and saw Hotah pull Arianne out of one of the baskets. The little one wriggled in his firm grasp, and Oberyn nodded to him, “Take her back to Doran.”

“Auntie, please, please!” Arianne yelled kicking Hotah hard in the gut and he grunted. Elia shook her head laughing. “Uncle! Please! I hate you auntie! I hate you uncle! I hate you!” All the servants were laughing as Hotah gripped her in his arms and rode back to the palace. 

She almost fell off her saddle again when she saw Oberyn take Sarella in hand, and hold her waist with his arm in front.

“You brought her!” He grinned in reply and nuzzled his daughter’s tiny head. She smiled. Maybe, this long journey would not be so bad. 

As the ship left the dock she gazed out onto her sweet Dorne and waved at the servants she knew. Oberyn stood by her side and bobbed Sarella by the side of the ship dangerously. She looked out wistfully, one last time, at the hot sands of Dorne. It was time to leave home and find another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is inspired by the blog: Meditations on a Song of Ice and Fire  
> 


	2. All Men Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: Winter from Four Seasons  
> No prizes for guessing why

Winter was nearing, the summer trees had begun to lose their leaves, while the stern, truly northern trees stood strong. The sun was subdued, and it was almost dark, though it was only midday. Lyanna missed the summer but loved the cold bite of the winter, the almost sadistic pinch in her skin. It was a sweet pain and numbness.

She rushed through the wood, her horse unbeatably fast, its strong hoofs raking the ground. The horse sped as if to share her wrath. How could he? How could he? He was supposed to be her brave knight. Brave knights do not leave their ladies in castles and go to frolic in brothels. 

She reared her horse to a stop near Jory who was waiting near the clearing, with his horse tied up nearby. He looked up at her and smiled, looking at her in that meaningful way he always did that made her heart race. But, his eyebrows furrowed when he saw her jaw set in rage. She slapped him hard on the face. 

“How dare you go with my brother to that abominable place!”

“The Gods! What -Which place, Lya?” he asked, confused.

“Don’t you dare act as though you do not know. You rode with Brandon to that brothel. Everyone knows what happens there. There are loose women and, and-”

“Do you know what happens in a brothel? At such a tender age? Lord Rickard will be sorely disappointed,” he teased nervously. 

Lyanna glared at him. “Of course I know. I am fourteen and flowered,” she shook her head, “Do not try to distract my anger. You promised you would be only mine. You liar,” she yelled, hating how shrill she sounded. 

Jory was shaking his head, his beautiful brown hair waving around his almond-shaped hazel eyes, his mouth set in a frown. “My lady, I must go where my lord – your brother – commands me. How can I help it? I had to guard Brandon and his friends’ backs as they did their despicable deeds in the brothel.”

“Truly?” Lyanna said in her deep, queenly voice, “Swear it.”

“I swear it,” Jory said quietly meeting her eyes. She loved his nose, and how strong it looked on his rugged face. More than anything else she loved this feeling of danger, the thrill of escaping being caught. There was no greater beauty than forbidden love. The love between a knight and a lady. True, Jory was no knight, but he soon swore he would be. Then he would be her Florian, and she his Jonquil. 

She let her gaze soften a bit, acting her part of the drama, the jealous lover whose suspicions were being proven false. Jory took her hand and pulled her close, gulping for the thousandth time at what the family he served would say if they saw him with her. She rested her head against his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Promise me that you’ll never be with anyone else.” 

“I promise,” Jory said quietly, not knowing how long this foolishness would continue. But now, this moment was pleasurable, with a wild Stark beauty in his arms, her gentle breath warming his neck. He gently drew her further into his embrace and settled at the base of the tree. She drew her breeches up before sitting so they would not tear. 

At his humble request, she sang him “Two hearts that beat as one”. He sighed at her sweet, childish voice. By the middle of the song, her breathing was ragged and she found it difficult to draw out the words from her head because Jory was lightly tattooing feathery kisses on her neck. The song ended abruptly when these kisses turned to her mouth. One. Two. Ten kisses. Then a deep kiss, his tongue swishing in her mouth and she arched her back, pressing against him.

“Alright, milady?” he chuckled at her, and she shook her head, irritated at being addressed so, “Lya,” she corrected him unconsciously. Jory slipped his hand down to her large, round breast, her hard nipple poking scandalously through of the thin shirt and rubbed it as she moaned with the rhythms into his mouth. Then he gently undid the laces at the front of her shirt, and slipped his hand toward her breast-

“Argh!” Lyanna yelled. She suddenly stood up looking at the sky, her eyes following a raven. “What?” Jory asked alarmed standing up. Did he hurt her? Did the raven peck her?

“That raven – that raven had three eyes- Jory!” Jory looked at her wide grey eyes for a long moment to see if she was in earnest and then slowly shook his head. “When women near the peak of their pleasure, they see all sorts of strange things.”

Lya looked at him, her almost obscenely large lips, red with kissing and slightly parted. “Last time,” he gulped when he remembered slipping his fingers down her smallclothes against the same tree, “I only saw shattered lights. I swear, the raven had three eyes.”

Jory did not know what to say after that, without sparking another argument. He shook his head again, “If my lady says so,” and she hit him playfully. Suddenly, he felt very guilty at how young she was, and a Stark lady nonetheless. No, this cannot go on, he cannot ruin the sweet girl. 

He told her gruffly, “It’s time for you to leave, before it is dark. The Umbers will be here for the feast.” She nodded and turned toward her horse. He helped her on top, even though she could swing on just as well as any other man and untied it for her. Holding her reins in his one hand, he cupped her cheek and pressed his lips against hers for a swift kiss, which he hoped as always, would be their last. “My Florian,” she whispered into his ear and galloped into the woods, hunched forward, looking more the Florian than him.

\---

Brandon sat at the table, japing with his friends. Jory on the right, Melfrick on the left, Breac on the other side of Jory. His sister entered late, earning a sharp scolding from Old Nan and sulkily made her way toward their table. Ignoring the kitchen maid’s cries of “Your place is here, lady!” at the ladies’ table, she settled herself next to Melfrick. Both brother and sister were seated at the lower end of the table with lessers, which went unnoticed by their lord father, who was attempting to talk himself out of another Umber drinking contest, but did not slip past a disapproving Ned. 

“Look at him, even Old Nan does not stare so much,” Lya remarked, digging lustily but not un-dignified into the sheep-meat pie she adored. 

Brandon guffawed, “He’s a good boy Ned, follows the rules and ends up looking like he’s got a stick up his arse.” Ned was presently attempting pleasantries with an Umber lady, who was shy and tittering. 

“Look, he’s got himself a lover,” Lyanna japed. 

Brandon chuckled, “We know who’ll be warming his bed tonight.” Jory caught her eye and grinned, making her blush.

“Speaking of which, who warmed your bed yesterday at the brothel?” Melfrick cut in. Breac added, “You are usually with Ally, but she wasn’t with you last night-“ 

Jory cut in, “Lord Stark is looking at you, Lyanna, you must take your-“ Lyanna hushed him, she wanted to hear who her brother had been with. 

Brandon took a gulp of wine, savouring his companions’ curiosity as he swished the wine in his mouth slowly. “Barbrey Ryswell.” 

“She’s no whore,” Lyanna said, confused.

“No, she came in disguise. Again,” Brandon confided, “she wanted me so badly,” he said proudly. “Oh she was such a glory.” Lyanna blushed. She needed to get away before they began immersing themselves in gory details of the event. 

Melfrick began, “I thought her cries were familiar – I think I heard her when you had her the second time in Winterfell’s stables. I heard them again, and with Jory fucking Ally-“ The rest of his words were drowned out in Lyanna’s ears as she looked at Jory. His head was down, his hair a curtain hiding his face. Liar. He was no Florian.

Brandon went on, unaware of the turmoil happening in their midst, “Every single one of them wants to be the Lady of Winterfell. Marry me, marry me, the stupid wenches plead. I just have to say I will talk to my father, and the hens go straight back to my cock.” 

Lyanna could feel the vomit raising up in her throat as she turned away sharply and strode towards Ned, Brandon continuing his sordid tale, too drunk to notice. Ned patted the seat next to him and she sat with the men. Although it was not appropriate, it was only the Umbers, who were too busy drinking, bellowing at each other, and japing to notice.

She took a sip of wine, and felt strangely calm, despite Jory’s betrayal. “Don’t you think Brandon is a bad man, betraying Catelyn Tully, by fucking every whore in the North?”

Ned seemed taken aback at her anger, “Lyanna! Such language will not do!” he whispered at her fiercely. Then he shook her head at her question, “He is not a foul person. He is just- lusty. It’s the wolfsblood in him.”

“You have wolfsblood, but you are not lusty,” she pointed out.

“It is not something we must discuss at your age, and not something a lady must speak of.”

“Men are cheats, and liars. All of them, the lot of them,” she spat.

Ned looked at the tears welling up in her eyes and realized there was a something amiss. “Who hurt you so, Lya?”

She had half a mind to tell him everything. She bit her lip. Jory would deserve it, He’d probably lose his head or be sent to the Wall. He will certainly be banished from Winterfell. Maybe, before any of that, Brandon would kill him. “I cannot tell you,” she said, turning away. Ned tried to ask her again, gently laying his hand over his, ”What is it Lya-“ but Lyanna shrugged him away, walking towards her chambers. Old Nan clucked after her disapprovingly and she caught her father’s shocked expression as she left the hall. 

She stood on the balcony, breathing hard into the dark. Jory was never her Florian. A true Florian would swear to love her and her only. Maybe, she wasn’t beautiful enough for that, with riding sores and her manlike muscles. A single tear rolled down her cheek. No! She would find her one true love, someday, the old gods would make sure. She would pray hard in the godswood tomorrow that someone would love her with all his heart someday, somewhere, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna may look like young Arya but at heart, she is also Sansa.


	3. Reunions and First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers

Elia clutched her stomach, nearly heaving over the side, as the ship neared King’s Landing. Just a few more moments, she told herself, as she saw the small retinue of Gold Cloaks waiting for them at the docks. The golden ants grew larger and larger and grew more and more blurred as the ship threw anchor. She was faintly aware of Oberyn standing next to her, joking about golden boys, when everything went black.

Her next waking moment was in a guest chamber in Maegor’s Holdfast. It was near sunrise. Her face burned with shame. She must have been carried unconscious to the Red Keep. What a sight that must have been to her betrothed and the King – a sign that she was weak and possibly useless in the birthing bed. Her muscles ached and a dry cough wracked her body for a few moments as a kind servant girl patted her back. Never mind, what she was lacking physically, she would make up with good grace and lady-like charm. 

She briskly got off the bed, nearly doubling over with pain in her stomach. “No-“ was all she could say. Her bed was stained with moon blood. Moon blood meant days of unbearable cramps, heavy bleeding, nausea, weakness. She closed her eyes and calmed herself. Everything would be well. If the gods deigned that she would not marry Rhaegar, there was nothing to be helped. With that nearly comforting thought, she asked the maid to bring her cloth for padding to wear in her small clothes and she hurried out, wide-eyed. Elia removed the bedsheet and asked one of the maids to wash it. Once the cloth arrived she folded it more times than she usually did and firmly secured it in her small-clothes. Then, she opted for a high-necked Westorosi gown, thick with two layers, that would cover any unseemly stains and fill her out. She quickly hid the blackness under her eyes with the golden rock-powder from Dorne, and stained her lips with some berry essence. Then two of her servants neatly braided her beautiful hair up in a Southron hairdo that made her look dignified. When Elia stepped out of her chambers, she looked like a true princess-

\- only to be accosted like a child by Ashara. Her berry stain was rubbed off onto the shoulder of Ashara’s gown and her cousin gripped her back so firmly it hurt, but Elia felt mind-numbingly happy. 

“You! You look like a princess already!” 

Elia smiled at her younger cousin, “Said the raven to the crow?”

Ashara hugged her again, “Oh you, Elia,” she pulled her cheek unexpectedly, ruining her appearance more, and then surveyed her hand. “Oh dear, I’m ruining you!” Elia laughed at the unintended meaning. 

Ashara hurriedly rushed her to the mirror, and put so much berry stain on Elia’s lips that they hurt when it dried. Then she dusted the rock powder all over her face, and began removing her hairdo.

“Ashara-“

“Hush, you look like a Septa. You have to show the prince your beautiful hair. He said he will come to collect you. There’s no time to waste-“

“I’m sure the prince has seen better beauties than me. I can’t charm him with-“

“Aye, but not everyone is the Princess of Dorne.“

Elia smiled, pleased by her frankness. Ashara pulled her hair into two smaller plaits flat against her scalp on either side leading to a single plait at the back as Elia winced at her harsh movements. Ashara also made her change her gown to a purple silk Dornish one, “You are the Princess of Dorne” Ashara chided, despite her protestations. The sleeves flowed down her arms, and the amethyst-jeweled belt glowed in the dim morning light. When she finally looked at the mirror, she nearly blushed. “Seven hells, Ashara, I look like Ellaria Sand.” Ashara smiled wickedly, “Oberyn needs to see you now.” 

Elia hit her arm playfully. “Then to Rhaegar before my face begins to melt-“

Ashara dragged her out of the chambers un-ladylike, still elated to be with her cousin, waiting to talk, play, and laugh with her properly. They nearly collided with the Dragon Prince himself.

He was tall, lithe and muscled from swinging sword and lance. Lank, silvery hair, white as an old man, yet glossy, hung loosely about his face, flowing down in waves to the middle of his chest. His clean-shaven face was white, his eyebrows white, his lips the palest of pink. Elia thought he might disappear, if not for his striking black and red doublet. But his features were proportionate, sharp yet soft that doubtless made him a favourite among ladies. She immediately looked around for his Kingsguard, and saw- Arthur.

She tore her eyes from his familiar (grinning) face and turned to the Dragon Prince. He was the first to speak, having indulged in a survey of her just as she had looked over him. 

“Lady Elia and Lady Ashara” he bowed to them and addressed Elia, “It is a pleasure to behold such beauty so early in the morning.” Princess Elia, she itched to correct, but that would not do. Ashara had bowed her head to him in return. 

“Your Grace, I must apologise for my sickness yesterday. It is a great pleasure to finally meet you,” she said, smiling. 

“No matter. Please call me Rhaegar,” he took her arm in his, gently leading her through the corridors of the Red Keep. His voice was sweet as honey yet trenchantly authoritative. “Your younger brother has been informed that you are awake and well. I have also arranged for the servants to move you closer to our chambers. They are grander.” 

Elia merely nodded – he was breathtakingly, intimidatingly handsome at close-quarters, with eyes of the queerest colour. A sharp feeling rose up her throat and her heart froze. It was too much. “Thank you – Your - Rhaegar,” she looked back at Arthur for reassurance, just a glance, unable to control herself. 

Rhaegar stopped in his tracks and turned to her. “Elia, may I call you that?” She nodded. “Forgive me, I have forgotten Arthur is also your cousin. You will doubtless want to speak to him.” He gently gestured to Arthur. 

Elia smiled up at her other cousin, her cheek muscles nearly tearing apart in joy. Arthur had a similar grin on his face. “Sword of the Morning,” she teased, “Look at you.” She hadn’t seen him since she was a teenager. 

“Yes, Princess Elia?” Arthur said, stressing on her title. 

“It has been a long time.” 

Arthur shook his head, “Why have you forgotten me, princess?” 

“How could one forget such a charming face,” she giggled despite the Prince being nearby, “Caked with mud from the Water Gardens.” 

They laughed slightly at the memory of an incident from their shared past. “Apologies Arthur,” she placed a hand on his chest, “that is the sole image that emerges in my mind when I think of you.” 

“We have much to speak, Princess.” Arthur said, but with a sideways glance expressed that this was not the time and place. 

Elia nodded to Rhaegar, “I may have to borrow one of your Kingsguard later,” and Oswell Whent snorted. 

Suddenly, she worried about how that had sounded, so she babbled on, “Ashara, Arthur and I have always been close, so I would be thankful if you could free him for a little time for the three of us-“ 

“Of course,” Rhaegar said, shaking his head, “that will not be a problem.” He still had his mask of courtesies on, as he steered her with his arm. She did not like the way he was controlling where she went, his sinewy arm nearly painful upon hers. 

“Your Grace, where are we headed?” Ashara had the presence of mind to ask.

“To the Throne Room. My father wishes to meet you.” She heard Ashara draw in a shaky breath behind her. The Mad King. 

“Perhaps, you could tell me more of Dorne, Elia. Arthur never speaks much of it.” Elia answered his polite questions, asking a few polite ones about the Red Keep in turn. “It is a foul place, reeks of stink and piss. I keep trying to persuade my father to build proper sewers,” he said dismissively.

Elia told him at length of the Water Gardens and its beautiful terraces, fluted pillars, ethereal staircases, hot sands, fast Sand steeds, crimson, bittersweet blood oranges. She missed Dorne, and exaggerated quite a bit of its beauty and wondrousness, while Rhaegar spoke demeaningly of King’s Landing and the Red Keep. “More like a prison”, he scoffed. Rhaegar politely nodded at her stories of Dorne and asked encouraging questions. By the time they were at the Throne Room’s doors, Elia could hear unmistakable sounds of suppressed laughter behind her. She turned, and Arthur explained, “Princess,” he chuckled, “His Grace has already been to Dorne.” She swiveled around to see Rhaegar's face holding a rare, slight smile, then felt thoroughly angry at the four mummers –

\- and the doors opened to reveal a packed room with a figure seated at the end, on a cruel, barbed throne, fingers steepled under his chin. 

The Mad King.


	4. A Betrothal for Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bartok's Romanian Folk Dances  
> Because they sound like they're full of puzzlement (is that even a word?)

Lyanna wistfully watched Brandon and Jory fighting in the yard. Brandon had been knighted by their lord father at fifteen for hunting wildlings, though knighting was not oft done in the North. “Slew eight wildlings, the lad,” her father had bellowed, “His first time in battle nonetheless. What a lad,” and she had felt a pang of jealousy. She remembered Brandon when he came back from the battle, already large and strong, his sword dripping with blood, and his face had seemed – alive. That was the night he had his first whore. Brandon always said fucking was like fighting -

She shook the disturbing thoughts from her head. She wanted to fight too, so she could be powerful. She swung her wooden sword to the left and right, trying to practice the moves Ser Rodrick taught the green boys. She felt a tap on her backside. “Ow!” she said, as Benjen raced past her. She chased him, and he ran fast all the way to the godswood. She noticed a smaller wooden sword in his hand. “Aerion!” he shouted in his high voice, pretending to be Duncan the Tall. “No! I’m Duncan the Tall!” she whispered, “Don’t shout.” They parried swords and under her unrelenting strength, Benjen who was three years younger, found himself backing up to the pool. She finally dealt a savage blow to his thigh, irritated because he had called her Aerion again, and he screamed, falling into the pool. “Hush! Or Old Nan will hear and tell father!” she scolded, as he thrashed in the pool. She gathered him in his arms and pulled him out of the pool. 

“Now I can’t kiss the lady because I’ve lost,” he mumbled in pain. She surveyed his thigh, and sighed in relief. There would be no lasting damage. Sometimes, when they were younger, she let Benjen win, so that he could kiss her on the cheek or lips and she could pretend she was Jonquil. But that was long ago, and Ben must have forgotten in the pain. She gave him a rude, slobbery kiss on the lips and grinned at his disgusted expression. Before he picked up his sword and roared at her, she found herself running, laughing, only to have Ned stop her midway in the yard by gripping her shoulders.

His face broke into a confused smile at the sword at his hands, but he soon sobered. Looking older than his years he said, “Father wants to see you in the solar.”

She shook her head confused, panting. “Go change into something suitable.” He told her, his nose wrinkling as Breac shouted, doubled over, “My cock! My cock! You bastard!” as Brandon laughed, sword in hand.

She stomped inside and Old Nan followed her, wizened hands pressing against her back. 

“It is not proper for a lady to stomp about –“ and on and on she went as Lyanna firmly shut her outside her head. She picked up a navy blue gown with a deep cut and pulled it over herself, hoping she would chance upon Jory on the way.

Old Nan eyed her disapprovingly, “That gown’s neck is-“ 

“I am only going to meet my father,” she cut her off and went to the solar, with Old Nan muttering that becoming a silent sister would be easier than taming this wild wolf.

In the solar, her father was seated, letter in hand, the other hand rubbing the wrinkles on his forehead. He looked up, and his mouth nearly dropped in shock at the deep cut of her gown. The door opened again and Ned entered with Brandon, still sweaty from the yard. Jory stood outside the door.

“Jory get me some wine,” Rickard rumbled. She could hear his boots on the floor as he left. 

Rickard looked around the solar, trying to find a way to break the news, but his second son decided to help him. 

“Lyanna, you remember Robert, Lord of Storm’s End?” 

“Yes,” she said curiously. She had gone to Storm’s End last year with Benjen and a retinue to get Eddard back to Winterfell, after he was knighted by Jon Arryn, relentlessly teasing him for becoming a proper Southron knight all the way. Robert Baratheon was a big, strapping man with a beard, tiny but bright blue eyes and an overbearing jaw. He looked much older than his twenty years, muscles threading his body. She remembered his vulgar jokes and how he would keep touching the serving ladies and shuddered. But, he’d never been anything other than kind to her, always calling her beautiful and watching her with amusement as she played with Benjen. He reminded her of Brandon. 

“Robert has asked for your hand.” 

Lyanna stiffened. 

There was a brief silence as Jory entered the room, pouring wine for her father, and he looked up at her, nearly dropping his jug in shock.

Then Brandon began, fast and angry, “Ned she’s barely twelve, and you want to see her wedded to that great oaf-“

“Not right now, she will only be betrothed now-“

“She is my little sister!”

“Catelyn Tully was betrothed to you when she was five-“

Rickard cut in hastily, “Alright you two. Lyanna,” he said, addressing her affectionately, “I will never marry you off without your consent,” Lyanna relaxed. “Robert Baratheon is the Storm Lord, big, strong, honourable, handsome,” he said, “he will look after you well.”

“Lady Lyanna, the Mad King grows madder. Should there be war, we will be stronger with Riverrun and the Stormlands by our side,” Maester Walys added. 

Lyanna looked down and then at Jory who was staring at the floor. If he truly loved her he would say that he would marry her now. But he did no such thing. “Do I have any other choices?” she asked bitterly, and Brandon tensed.

“You have plenty of choices Lyanna,” Brandon began, but Ned cut in.

“Bran, please see some sense. In troubled times, these alliances are important to us.”

Brandon started again heatedly, “You do not have to worry about that Lya. Father, Ned was with Baratheon so long that I think he holds his concerns above our sister’s-“

“Look-“

“You are so righteous Ned! Is Baratheon above your rules? He beds every whore in the realm and drinks like there is no tomorrow. Do you think he will turn into a Septa when he marries my sister?” Lyanna gulped. “I will not see my sister miserable!”

Lyanna perked up at a thought. “What about the Dragon Prince?” she asked wistfully. The beautiful prince who everyone praised, with hair like silver and a voice like honey that would sing for her. In that moment, she dared to dream of gazing into amethyst eyes. 

Brandon scoffed, his face twisted in rage, “Do you know how old he is? Twenty. You are scarce thirteen, Lyanna! You, in the Red Keep, I cannot imagine-“

Rickard slammed his fist on the table and the jug jumped. 

She looked at Jory and thought, 'How would you like that? I could be princess of the realm and I would keep you as my paramour.' The craven's face was blank and expressionless. 

Brandon made to continue, unfazed, but Rickard roared his name, making him stop. He turned to Lyanna, “Push such thoughts out of your head, Lyanna. I am disappointed in your silly daydreams. You are so much like Brandon, but you cannot be.”

Maester Walys shook his head at her and continued in place of her father, “The Mad King burns his subjects, and abuses his queen. We will not let you be anywhere near him, let alone his good-daughter if we can help it, no matter how good Rhaegar is said to be. The Red Keep is a horrible place, Lady Lyanna, full of plotting and murder.”

Lyanna stiffened, and tears flooded her eyes unbidden at her family’s unanimous and outright rejection of the honey-throated prince oft in her dreams. She sniffed, “What other options do we have?”

The Maester thought, “Jaime Lannister,” Brandon scoffed again, “and Oberyn Martell. Maybe not Oberyn Martell,” he added hastily at Brandon’s murderous expression, “The eldest Karstark, if we have no other option,” Rickard boomed. Lyanna waited for Cassel and it never came. Jory was still avoiding her eyes, pouring her father more wine. 

“How is Jaime Lannister?” she asked as she twisted her fingers, feeling hopelessly cornered. 

Brandon had no unsolicited opinion to offer for once, since they barely knew anything of Jaime Lannister. “He is good with the sword I hear,” the Maester fumbled, “A well-mannered boy, knighted young.”  
No doubt, that is what they say of Brandon. Better the known devil than the unknown, she thought.

More than anything she wanted to see the expression on Jory’s face when she said it. Sweet revenge. “Fine, I will marry Baratheon.” Brandon’s face was twisted in shock, Ned’s eyes widened and Rickard looked at her sharply. Jory flinched.

“Wha-Yes,” Rickard rumbled. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m sure,” she smiled at Ned, hoping it would look convincing. There was a shocked silence.

“I can send the reply?”

“Yes, consider this as fulfilling my duty to Winterfell. But a word of warning. If Baratheon ever so even lays a hand on me without my approval, he will find himself a head shorter,” she proclaimed, and Rickard relaxed, because his daughter was back, from the alien creature that had so peacefully acquiesced to a betrothal. Brandon stared at her wordless, and then began to yell at her, "Lya, you cannot be serious! She's too young to know anything-".

Rickard spoke quietly above his shouting. “Walys, send back a letter expressing Lyanna’s consent to the betrothal, but say we will wait for quite a while till the marriage.” Ned and Jory were trying to hold back a furious Brandon, who was yelling, spittle flying from his lips.

“Of course, my lord,” Walys said.

Lya yelled at Brandon, "Mind your own business! And I am not a child!" Brandon glared at her, his grey eyes wide in anger and left, his boots stomping loudly on the floor.

“Wait Walys, I will dictate it to you, myself.” Rickard got up and came to her, “Only yesterday you were this small, running between my legs. Now grown, flowered, betrothed,” he gripped her shoulders, his eyes filling with tears, speechless, as she blushed in embarrassment. Rickard sighed and wiped his tears. “Do you want to stay and help me write the letter?” he asked, hand cupping her cheek.

“No father, see you at supper,” she said and left quietly, bidding Jory with her eyes to follow. 

\---

In the stables, she turned on him her raven hair flying wildly about her face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say what?” he looked around, trying to keep his eyes anywhere but at her chest.

“You could have asked for my hand.”

Jory’s face soured, “Do you honestly still think you can be my lady wife?”

“You never thought I could?”

“I never, for a moment.”

She slapped him. “Then why did you trick me, lie to me! Do you even like me?”

“Of course I like you Lyanna! You’re so pretty! But not pretty enough to lose my life over.”

Anger swept her up in tides. “Then you’re not worthy of me.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes sad, “I love Brandon and Ned too much to do that to them.”

“Do what, pray?”

“Ruin their sister, Lyanna. You could not have thought for one moment that I could marry you. I am only the son of a bannerman, not even the eldest.”

My Florian. She leaned to him. “Fuck Baratheon. We could run away together.” They could go to the Free Cities, beyond the Narrow Sea.

He shook his head smiling bitterly, “You are still a child. You do not know what you are saying.”

“I love you,” she said.

“No,” he said shortly, “you love adventure.”

She watched his back as he walked fast, out of the stables. She sat hard on the hay and pulled at it, willing herself to not cry. She stuffed some of the hay in her mouth to keep from crying and then nearly retched because it was disgusting. She carefully took every image of Jory Cassel in her mind, every memory, and locked it safely somewhere, threw the key into the Narrow Sea, and walked into the fighting yard to challenge Benjen again. This time she would be Duncan the Tall.


	5. The Maiden Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21 for a blossoming romance.

Dragon heads dangled over the huddled, apprehensive crowd in the Throne Room. They ranged in size from a dog’s head to Balerion the Dreadful's hulking skull that sat behind the Iron Throne, dwarfing it. The dragon on the throne was even more diminutive and hunched, and his shrewd, suspicious glance darted across the room, stopping from time to time on a few unfortunate faces. 

“Yer Grace,” the peasant was snivelling, his chin wobbling, “Winter's comin' and we're all starvin'. The lords, all of em' makes us pay 'em taxes, more 'n more,” he sobbed. “M' daughter, she's half-dead, yer grace and m' newborn babe dead 'n the cradle cause the wife's milk's all dried up. Please help us, yer grace."

They were hidden in the shadows, waiting, and Elia observed the king with great curiousity. His features must have been as beautiful as Rhaegar’s once, perhaps even more, because there was a fierce quality to his face- a contrast to Rhaegar's sombreness. Yet now, it was pinched and wrinkled beyond his years. His beard and hair hung about him in uncut glory, his nails disgustingly long, though not as long (nine-inches, some said) as she had been led to believe. She hoped his madness was also exaggerated.

“Where are you from?” boomed the voice, surprisingly deep for such an emasculated figure. His hands were covered with bruises, his robe ripped at the thigh with a slight bleeding scratch. Elia shivered when she saw him move against the arm of the throne, cutting himself on purpose. 

“The Westerlands, yer grace.”

“Tywin Lannister,” he spat, “Who is your liege lord?”

“Lord Peckledon, yer grace," he bowed until he near scraped the floor.

“Varys!” he called, and the eunuch bowed obsequiously to him, “Send knights to bring the Lord of Pickle – Peckledown is it? To me. The King summons him to the Red Keep to answer for his crimes of tormenting the poor with taxes.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Varys replied softly, nodding.

Elia frowned. Tywin Lannister would not like this. One did not punish a lord for imposing taxes. True, she had heard of the burdensome taxes in the Westerlands, but alienating lords was not a good strategy as a king. And peasants oft exaggerated. A few peasants will starve when winter comes, but Doran always said it helped reduce their numbers because they bred like mice.

“No more taxes!” the king yelled to the assembled, “I hereby cancel all taxes. These lords, fat preening hens living off the grain of poor peasants and pecking at me everyday. And their leader is my Hand, the old lion, Tywin Lannister! Chelsted, do you have that down?” 

“Yes, your Grace,” the Master of Coin next to him said, no doubt wracking his brain as to how else they would get money for the treasury. 

“Next!”

“That is all for today, Your Grace,” Varys said calmingly, the eunuch's voice velvety soft and his face carefully powdered, “You are to meet Lady Elia Martell.” 

“Bring her.” 

They strode, arm in arm down the Great Hall, carefully appraised by the stony glance of the Mad King. He appeared to be searching Rhaegar’s face for something. 

Elia bowed to the throne. “Your Grace. It is a great honour to meet you.”

“You. All of you. A pack of liars and false kneelers,” he growled.

She looked up at the King and then bowed her head, not knowing what to say. 

Rhaegar too bowed, “Your Grace, Lady Elia will be present with us for a week. We are honoured to have you my lady,” he gently added

“She should be honoured to have you. Soft-spoken plotter, my son. Don’t trust him. Just like those fawning, falsely polite lords.” Elia trembled. 

Aerys smiled cruelly. “Lady Elia,” he chanted, stepping down from the throne. He put his fingers under her chin, his long finger nails scratching her thin throat, “I quite like you. I like you very much. Very… exquisite.”

“May I interrupt, your Grace? A pleasure to be your guest and behold your presence.” Oberyn was bowing beside her, and each word was spat out with ill-hidden malice. She shivered, whether from the touch of the Mad King or from Oberyn’s boldness she did not know. 

Aerys withdrew his hand from her throat, and she nearly collapsed in relief.

“The Red Viper. Protecting his sister.” He turned his eyes back on her, with a glance she did not like. “We will speak in private. Invite the Martells for dinner with me tonight. Varys will arrange it. Just Rhaella, Vis, Rhae,” he said briefly. It felt odd to hear Rhaegar’s short-name from his mouth.Two of the Kingsguard helped his thin frame down the steps, and he pushed them away harshly when he had descended, spitting to Rhaegar, “Keep your cock out of her till then.” 

Mortified, she gripped Oberyn arm tightly for a while. Rhaegar came in front of her as the king strode away, “My apologies, Elia. My father has a harsh tongue. He demanded to meet you as soon as you woke.” 

“It is no matter,” she said, trying to smile, “I hope our dinner will be pleasant.” He smiled sadly. 

“It better be more pleasant than this,” Oberyn growled, glaring at him. Rhaegar was taken aback, and Elia gave him a scolding glance.

"I would like to invite the both of you for lunch in my solar, perhaps to erase the memory of this unfortunate meeting," Rhaegar asked softly.

Oberyn gripped Elia even closer, "I think the prospect of one meal a day with the Tagaryens is nigh unbearable in itself."

Elia replied quickly, "Do not mind Oberyn. He has a sharp temper. I would be glad to accept your invite." 

"No," Oberyn hissed, "You need to rest." Elia understood this skirmish was being fought between brother and possible betrothed.

Rhaegar saw it too, still gracious despite Oberyn's stand-offishness, for which Elia admired him, "Your brother has a point Elia. Maybe it is best that you rest till dinner, since you were not in the best of health yesterday. Farewell."

She nodded her farewell kindly, and as soon as he left with Arthur and Oswell, Oberyn cupped her cheek gently. “I will be wroth to leave you in this dragon den, Elia. The simpering prince and the insane king-,” she shushed him, fearing someone would here.

“Nor do I want to be betrothed to him,” Elia added, “But for Dorne.” She gently extricated herself from Oberyn, “I need some sleep,” and kissed his head goodbye. 

\---

She woke from her slumber and dressed in red, her favourite colour. She tied her hair up, forgoing powders and stains, instead choosing to line her eyes with charcoal. She slipped on golden jewellery: a large chain that hugged her neck, bangles and belled anklets. When she had come back to her chambers, she was shocked to find a stain in her small-clothes and was thankful nothing untoward had happened to her dress in front of the Mad King-

\- The door opened. A pretty maid came in and shouted, excited and wide-eyed, “The Prince wants to escort you!” She sighed, banishing her hopes of a peaceful walk to the Queen’s Ballroom to collect her thoughts.

Arthur was the first to see her and she smiled at his wide eyes. “Beautiful,” he mouthed. 'The flatterer', Elia thought to herself, 'I am nothing compared to your sister, violet-eyed, fair-skinned'. Rhaegar was nodding, bemused, at something Whent was saying, and it relieved her to see him relaxed and at ease - it made him seem more human. Her golden bangles jingled and her anklets chimed as she walked to him, “Elia,” he took her hand and kissed it. His eyes were indigo – darker and less unreal than the light violet of the Tagaryens and Daynes, but full of a strange, alien sadness. “Such beauty in gold and red.” 

“A Lannister?” Whent japed.

Rhaegar went on, “When I heard the Dornishman’s wife first, I thought it an exaggeration, but you have proven me wrong Elia.” 

She shot back him in a sly manner, “Does the Dragon Prince seek to make the viper slither between his sheets with such talk? No wonder your father called you a soft-spoken plotter.”

Rhaegar seemed to be at a loss to answer that. Noting with irritation that Arthur was smirking, he asked, “Perhaps you could tell me how Arthur’s face came to be caked with mud, Elia?” Arthur groaned. 

“When Arthur was a child, he was very obsessed with his appearance.” Rhaegar glanced at Arthur. He was not what one would call handsome, only his eyes were remarkable in his rather fierce face that spoke more of honour and justice than handsomeness. 

“Unfortunately, he suffered from a bad bout of pimples during his stay at Sunspear. Ashara had very beautiful skin, so he asked her the secret behind her skin,” an uncontrolled grin spread on her face, as she whispered the last few words mysteriously. Oswell was already muffling his laughter. “Ashara told him it was the mud from the Water Gardens, applied on the face and left to dry before peeling it off.” She paused for dramatic effect, gesticulating wildly. “The dunce actually went to the Water Gardens that night,” a slight smile rose on Rhaegar’s face, “and Oberyn finds him skulking in the dark in the corridors afterward, face caked with mud!” Whent was howling with laughter. Rhaegar was still smiling in a controlled way, as Arthur had blushed beet red. “We too were howling with laughter after that.”

Whent finally calmed himself, “You tell a story well my lady,” he complimented. Rhaegar nodded in agreement, still smiling as Arthur cursed under his breath and pushed the doors open to the Queen’s Ballroom, ignoring a Kingsguard's greeting - Ser Grandison stationed outside the doors.

Aerys was seated at the head, with the regal Queen Rhaella next to him. The mirrors reflected the candlelight, making them look like characters from a bard’s fable. Beautiful, intricate paneled carvings coated the walls. Sers Gerold Hightower and Barristan Selmy flanked the king, and she felt a surge of joy at the sight of her uncle Lewyn, who guarded the queen. They exchanged secret, playful smiles. Little Viserys sat on the other side of his father, flanked by Ser Jonathan Darry and royal guards. Oberyn sat on the other side of the Queen, his face set in stony silence. Jon Connington, Rhaegar’s close friend and Lord of Griffin’s Roost sat next to Viserys. When she settled herself next to Rhaegar, with Arthur’s reassuring presence behind her, she saw that Aerys’ food was untouched, and shivered despite the heat of the mirrors and candlelight. Two men, who she assumed were tasters, were slowly sampling every course of the meal, as Aerys watched closely with his beautiful, cruel violet eyes.

Finally he spoke, addressing Elia directly, “Jaime Lannister will be arriving this week. His sister, Cersei Lannister is a possible choice for Rhaegar. Have you met her yet?,” he asked.

“No, your Grace.”

The Queen politely inclined her head toward her and she reciprocated. She was watching Elia carefully, her startlingly beautiful face marred by slight scars visible in the candlelight. From Aerys’ nails. 

“With so many guests in the Red Keep, it should be lively,” Rhaegar began to make polite conversation, “It does get quite lonely here.”

“If it is lonely, get the one-eyed whores of Flea Bottom to keep you company,” Aerys spat back. 'He loves the sound of his own voice', Elia thought.

After some time and careful pleasantries and conversation between the other men led by Rhaegar, Aerys who had appeared lost in thought, suddenly exclaimed, “Cersei Lannister is so beautiful, I would fuck her myself! I wonder what Tywin would say to that.” Rhaella did not look the least bit fazed.

“There goes my chance,” Oberyn commented sarcastically. 

Aerys laughed, “The Red Viper and the Lion! Now that is a mummer’s farce I want to see. When Tywin steps out of his Rock,” he stabbed his fork into his meat savagely and glared at a point on the opposite wall. 

“Father,” Rhaegar began, “Let us talk of good things, yes? We have guests.” He used a tone that was used for sick people, cooing, gentle. Aerys’ hatred melted a little. 

“Ah I am forgetting myself. Please eat,” Aerys proclaimed. They ate for a while in silence. The King was as unpredictable as a raft in a gale. 

“Do not dream of Cersei Lannister, Rhaegar. I will never marry you to Tywin’s daughter. With someone like Tywin, you will never be happy.” Rhaegar merely nodded, as Aerys continued, his voice soft. “You will marry the Dornish whore.” Oberyn stilled and glared at Aerys. Aerys finally began to eat after looking at his tasters for signs of illness one last time. 

“I like the girl. She even dresses like a rich whore.” Oberyn looked as though he would turn Kingslayer at the moment, but Rhaella saw and cut in softly, “My lord, your soup is going cold.” Aerys took the soup bowl and threw it at the queen and Viserys laughed loudly. Luckily the soup bowl missed her, clattering elsewhere, but she was drenched in the white creamy soup and it rolled off her face. If it was hot, Rhaella did not show it. She wiped her face and arms neatly with a towel. But, in response to Viserys’ laughter Aerys smacked him accross the face.

Viserys began to bawl and Rhaella started sobbing too. “Take him away!” Aerys said and the guards dragged him out of the room.

Aerys looked at Elia, pointing his dirty nail at him, “You will marry Rhaegar and be a good princess. Rhaegar is the only person I have in this world. If any harm comes to Rhaegar because of you… You will be a faithful wife and-“

“Father,” Rhaegar said softly, calming him, “It would be prudent to ask for her consent before-“

“Fuck her consent! Doran plots against me this very moment,” his spittle landed on Rhaella, who dared not wipe it, and he stabbed a silver knife on the table, “The wolves and lions plot against me. I will not marry you to the Lannister bitch who will kill you in your sleep, or the wild, savage wolf. My blood cools at the Lannisters’ stay only because Tywin will not attack me when they are hostage here. Of the bitches and whores of this realm, this viper is my choice and this is who you will marry!”

Rhaegar had nothing to say after that. He swallowed his words and ate his piece of boiled rabbit, heart racing in fear for his future. Elia tried desperately to calm Oberyn with her eyes. “Please,” she mouthed to him and shook her head, and he calmed a little.

Rhaegar cut in softly after allowing a reasonable silence, “Father please consider. I beg of you, for your son’s happiness. I ask you to only meet Cersei Lannister. She may be a sweet girl, for you have never spoken to her properly. Perhaps, she is nothing like Tywin.”

Aerys glared at the mirrors for a long time as Connington spoke his measured assent of Rhaegar’s plea. Their voices seemed to calm him- they spoke like septas comforting a sick child.

“Fine I will consider. The Lannister bitch may have hope yet. I will ask Varys,” he conceded. 

They ate their dinner in silence. Elia could not remember a worse dinner in her whole twenty-four years of life. In the middle, her chest exploded in a wracking cough that did not stop. Aerys’ eyes burned through her, as she excused herself from the dinner. Oberyn rose to take her, but Aerys proclaimed that one of the vipers would remain under his nose, lest both run away, so Arthur volunteered to escort with Rhaegar’s swift consent. 

Arthur’s arms were a comfy refuge. She leaned back against his arms and he swept her off his feet and carried her to her chambers. He knew her sickness well enough to know she could not walk. So many years away from Arthur, and still it felt like none at all. 

Arthur lay her gently in her bed and covered her with blankets, as her coughing slowly stopped. Elia laid her hand on his armored waist before he turned away and he stilled, sitting on the edge of her bed near her.

The tears came unbidden to Elia, and Arthur didn’t seem to know what to do.

“I wish Ashara was here,” she sobbed, and she wished immediately she hadn’t. As children, the cousin sisters’ closeness had always made Arthur lonely. 

“Should I send for her?”

“No, she will be sleeping,” she absent-mindedly laid her hand on his gloved hand. 

“How can you guard Aerys?” she whispered childishly.

Arthur shook his head, serious, “Rhaegar loves him,” as if that were all the explanation he needed.

“And Rhaegar wants Cersei Lannister.” She said it blankly, without emotion. Arthur stiffened even further if that was possible. 

“He hasn’t said anything of the sort.“ he said.

Elia smiled and looked up at him. “No, Arthur. I won’t be sad if Rhaegar doesn’t marry me. I do not love him.”

“He is oft called the handsomest man-“

“The prettiest.”

“Aye, but half the ladies in court say-“

“You are the handsomest.”

Arthur drew in a sharp breath. “Sorry?”

“Remember Doran always says mirrors lie?” Arthur was silent. “You may not have a pretty face, but you are honest to a fault, innocent, just and brave. You are pure as a lily as you were since a child. I’ve never known you to be greedy, cruel, sly or selfish. And that makes you a handsome man. In that white cloak, you, the Maiden Knight, are the handsomest man.”

“Maiden Knight,” Arthur chuckled, embarrassed, “Aye, that part is true.” The moonlight filtered through the windows on his face, and she felt as though she were in a dream, a dream of her childhood. 

“Do you ever wish we were children again, playing in the Water Gardens?”

“Several times, more because I miss the company,” Arthur replied.

“What?”

“I said it once, I will not say it again.” She smiled at him again. With Arthur she felt as though her face would melt with the pain of continual smiling.

He groaned and put his face in his hands, “You shouldn’t have told them the mud story. I will hear no end of it from Whent.”

She giggled and gently punched his chest and then rested her hand on it. Her body seemed to be acting of its own accord. Their grins vanished, as they gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment, a thousand unspoken words bouncing between them.

When he opened his mouth, Elia felt a thrill, a queer, sharp boiling in her chest that made her suddenly feel cold and she began to shiver as he spoke. 

“Cersei Lannister may look like a golden lass, beautiful – I don’t care. You are good with children. You are good,” he took her face in his hands gently, “You may not be called beautiful. You are not strong or – I do not have your – knack for words – Elia, you tell stories - I cannot describe you- you are - wonderful.”

“Arthur-“-

\- And then Arthur did the only dishonorable thing he had done in his twenty-one years of life. He kissed her.


	6. Whole Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Waltz from Khachaturian's Masquerade  
> Because it's awesome and Jaime x Cersei is awesome

Jaime.

The Dragon Prince may soon be her husband, but Jaime looked more like a prince in his golden armor and red cloak. For nearly three years she had been tottering around like a horse without a rider, and now she felt breathless with excitement. Even when at Casterly Rock they had been kept apart from each other after they were caught playing, but now…. 

He looked the same as she did, the slope of his nose, the full lips, golden hair, the emerald eyes. Yet- something was new about him this time, which made her breath catch in her throat. It may have been his broad shoulders, his strong jawline, the tallness of his limbs, the thickness of his eyebrows or the depth of his voice that set him off as a man, against her womanliness. That had been absent three years ago.

As he clambered off his horse, she walked up to him, her crimson dress swishing about her. She cursed herself for not wearing something more appealing, as the various younger ladies gathered near the entrance of the Red Keep were gazing desirously at Jaime, but Jaime had only eyes for her as she approached. He bent and took her hand, kissing it, longer than necessary. Rhaegar’s lips on her hand had been soft and cool, but her brother’s were hot and dry. Her throat burned with shame as she nearly gasped in desire. 

Was it not wrong to feel so for one’s brother?

“Sister sweet,” he said simply. His childhood smile cut across his face in a flash of teeth. It was crooked and brash, and warmed her heart.

She placed a hand on his chest and tiptoed, lifting her head to his. Three years ago, she had been taller than him. 

“Are you well?” she asked, her voice high and delicious.

Jaime looked back at the softer sculpt of his own face and felt the blood rushing to his cock when she placed her other hand too on his chest.

“Y-Yes,” he stuttered, stunned at the way his own body was reacting, his eyes raking in two protrusions from her chest larger than he had last seen, her impossibly narrow waist, and long, slender neck. 

Her face broke into a beautiful smile. The skin on her lips was parched, and Jaime wanted to wet them with his tongue. He nervously licked his lips. 

“You must break your fast in my chamber,” There was nothing Jaime would not have given to do exactly that, but he had other matters to attend to.

“I need to meet the Sword of the Morning,” Jaime said, regaining his composure, “and the prince. I may break my fast with them. We can meet afterwards. Are you well?” he asked, cupping her cheek with his palms.

She rubbed her face on one palm, “Fine. You will see me later,” she slipped her hands off his chest and walked away, displeased at his unavailability for the morning. He smiled at her commanding tone. His sister seemed unchanged in character.

He had spent the morning with Rhaegar and Dayne. Rhaegar was a boring old piece of cock, forever brooding. He could not understand why his sister fawned over him so. But he had seen the truth of it in the training yard, when he admired the way the prince moved his lithe body, easily dodging the heavy blows of Dayne, and striking with precision. They were near evenly matched and the fight was a delight to watch, though Dayne won. He was made to practice with Rhaegar’s squire, Miles Mooton, as Rhaegar and Dayne watched, commenting softly to each other. His style was a combination of Rhaegar’s speed and Dayne’s weight, though he also added a few flashy moves, and confident laughs for the benefit of his audience.

Dayne shook his head when he won and said, “Prodigious,” but Rhaegar only looked at his proud, smirking face with his queer eyes and nodded before signaling to Dayne so they may leave.

By then it was mid-day and he was tired from his journey and the fighting. He slept till nightfall, and then went to his sister’s chamber.

The Lannister guardsmen opened the door for him. “You may leave,” he told them, “My sister is safe in my hands.” They nodded, leaving, and he smirked. 

His sister was seated by the window, the candlelight accentuating the curls of her golden hair and making her fair skin gleam in the dark. Her sheer white nightgown made something tighten in his chest.

“Jaime,” she said softly, her eyes crystal green like the stained glass in Baelor's sept, gleaming in the candlelight. He covered the distance between them in three long strides, and –

\- he caught her full lower lip with his teeth, fingers on her chin. She moaned into his mouth. Oft, when travelling to the Kingswood from Crakehall, he had seen men rutting and had imagined doing the same to Cersei.

He ripped her nightgown with his hands and she gripped his waist, pulling his hips to hers. His cock hardened when he felt the wetness of her small-clothes. They were kissing as though out of breath, Jaime’s teeth biting Cersei’s lips desperately, until Cersei pulled away and slapped him. Her lips were red and bleeding.

“Wha-?”

“You’re hurting me,” she complained. He lifted her by her waist and dropped her onto the bed as she struggled against him, only making him harder. He pinned her down with his weight. 

“No-“ she began, but he cupped her mouth with his hand and undid his breeches with the other, keeping her in place with his legs and shoulders. He ripped her smallclothes with one motion of his hand. Then he suddenly had an idea.

Lowering his head, his bit his way down from her the top of her long neck to her breast, as she gasped against his hand in pain. Then he licked her nipple once. She stilled completely, remembering how he had done this to her before leaving for Crakehall. It was a sweet but sad memory.

He licked, sucked and bit her nipples, massaging her breasts with his hands and she squirmed in pleasure, the moans trapping in her throat and turning into high-pitched murmurs. 

Then he suddenly entered her, and her maidenhead burst. She squealed in pain and Jaime silenced her with his mouth. He took her uncertainly first, getting used to the queer, heavenly sensation. Then he began to confidently stroke her hard and fast, his skin slapping against her’s. They moaned and clawed at each other like lions, faces pink with exertion. Finally, Jaime came, taking care to spill his seed on her stomach.

He lay on her, his weight pressing against her, sheathing himself inside her again. With two fingers, he spread his seed on her stomach in circles, admiring the way it gleamed in the candlelight. He looked at her- she was breathing hard, eyes screwed tightly, shut in pain and desire, mouth slightly open. It was like looking at himself. He felt whole again. 

Cersei gasped as Jaime slid out of her and rolled onto the bed. She was aware of him watching her. He reached out to touch her and she slapped his hand away. 

“You’ve ruined me,” she accused bitingly, “I was saving myself for Prince Rhaegar and you ruined me.”

Jaime laughed, which infuriated her further, “I don’t think he has a cock. But he has long hair and near a woman’s voice. So no worries sister.”

Cersei turned to face him, her breathing harsh on his face with anger. It aroused him, making his softness fade gradually. “What will I say to Rhaegar when he finds out I am ruined?”

“Say you lost your maidenhead on a saddle by accident,” he smirked at his own joke. Cersei hated riding or anything that involved physical exertion. He tried to force her knees apart again but she pushed him away. 

“Marry me,” Jaime said rolling off the bed and pushing his breeches up. He was speaking it in jest, but daring to hope in his heart, “We will be Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock.” He spread his hands in a lordly gesture.

Cersei lay still for a while, still burning from the absence of Jaime inside her. “I will be queen,” she said, “Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, just as father promised me. Not a mere Lady of Casterly Rock,” she spat.

“I will make for Casterly Rock – our home- tomorrow. You can come with me if you want.”

“You should stay for the wedding.”

Jaime smiled, “You carry out your dreams. I won’t be there to spoil them.” He opened the door. 

“Jaime, please!” his sister looked at him, her beautiful eyes pleading. “You can’t leave me here. You have to stay. Please stay Jaime.” She put her hands on his chest and slowly moved them to his breeches. Jaime felt certain he was going to die of desire.

He caught her hands and kissed them, “Fine, I will stay. But I can’t promise we won’t end up like today again.”

Cersei smiled, and almost looked like a shy maid. 'She should be a mummer', Jaime thought. She laid two fingers on his lips, and gently rubbed his cock. “I hope we will.” 

Jaime smirked. He stepped out of the door and before he could turn for another wisecrack, the door slammed shut. 

He stared at the door for a whole moment, shocked. And then he smiled. It felt good to be himself again. To be whole.


	7. Gold for Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't have enough pathos to warrant music

Elia Martell had chosen to spend the previous day with Ashara Dayne, giggling and holding hands like children, and playing with Oberyn’s bastard daughter. Rhaegar smiled slightly when he recalled the little child’s sweet curtsey to him, when he went to ask if they needed anything. He had left Elia to enjoy her cousin, not wanting to disturb her peace further after the previous day’s disastrous dinner.

It was her skin that shocked him so. Oberyn was dusky-skinned but he looked almost fair next to Elia, who was the colour of an oak tree. In the sunlight, she glowed like bronze and gold, smooth when Ashara and he had turned blotchy and pink in the uncharacteristic autumn heat. Her face was unremarkable, and only looked beautiful when she looked at people she loved – Oberyn, Arthur, Ashara, because her smile was unrestrained-

-But, she was so frail. Her arms were thin as sticks, and she grimaced when he had only pressed them. She had come to the Keep unconscious, and her weak wracking cough at the dinner scared him. The prophecy, the only thing that kept him alive and sane as his father descended into madness, would never be fulfilled if he married her. His responsibility was to the realm, and to fulfill it, he would have to marry a stronger woman. 

He looked back at his map, marked with taxes to the Crown paid and foregone. Tywin had been kind to send him the map, which had been slipped to him by a little boy in the fighting yard. He read Tywin’s letter within the map again,  
“I have personally settled a part of the Crown’s debt yet again from Casterly Rock’s own coffers…..”  
Rhaegar sighed,  
“I have warned his Grace time and again that taxing the merchants will only ruin trade…”  
Rhaegar started to crumple the letter in frustration.  
“Peasants are never happy to be taxed, but we need the money to feed our soldiers and keep our holdfasts. The lords are becoming restless and unhappy at his Grace’s command to remove all taxes. They are still unsure if the command will be carried out.  
I hope your influence with his Grace still stands.  
And I hope my daughter pleases you.  
Tywin Lannister  
Hand of the King.”

Rhaegar hoped his daughter had wide hips, and a strong body.

He shook his head and sat on the table, sick of the anxiety in his stomach. He tore the map and letter into small, careful pieces- he had near memorized them- and fed them to the fire. He desperately wanted a trip to Summerhall, to think, to play his harp, just be away from this place. He began to hum a little tune that had come to him last night. One of his servants- Rich? - had been singing something similar-

\- the door opened and Ser Harlan announced, “Your father calls you to the throne room your Grace. He will hear petitions from the commons.”

Rhaegar nodded, “I will come with Lady Lannister.” It was high time he was acquainted with her again. It had been more than a week since their walk in the gardens.

In his chambers, Rhaegar’s male servants helped him don his black brocade tunic, red doublet and black breeches. One of the female servants removed his plait and combed his long hair, sighing. The servants often fought among themselves as to who would comb his hair. He looked at the mirror and decided he looked too much of a woman in his red doublet and long hair, so the servant was requested to tie up his hair in a bun. “Lady Cersei will love your hair down,” she had protested, but complied, albeit reluctantly. 

Rhaegar looked at how small his bun was and complained, “My hair is becoming thinner.”

“Your Grace does not take proper care of his hair. Some bran oil every night-“

Arthur coughed and she stopped. 

“Any beauty suggestions from you, Arthur?” Whent teased, as Rhaegar hastily stepped out of the chambers, still adjusting his boots. He was late- the sight of his comfortable bed had lulled him into sleeping, instead of thinking about how to convince his father to abandon his plans of marrying him to Elia Martell.

“We are late,” he told his Kingsguard. 

Whent cocked up an eyebrow, “A race to the guest chambers?” Rhaegar looked around and saw no-one important. They oft did this when no-one was watching. He smiled and unexpectedly began running, Whent and Arthur huffing behind him in their armour, cursing at the unfairness of the race. He turned right and looked back and –

\- collided into Elia Martell. The lady fell hard on her behind, screaming, her legs awkwardly spread, exposed to her knees. Arthur began, “It’s that way Rhae-” but quietened at the sight before him. Rhaegar apologized profusely without thinking, breathless, dazed himself, as Elia rubbed her forehead and looked at them, confused, and Ashara immediately bent, touched her and asked if she was alright. She nodded. 

“Is something wrong?” she asked, still in the same position. The sight began to harden him, and he hoped nothing would be visible through his breeches, cursing his weakness. 

“Is Lady Martell giving birth?” Whent joked, and she suddenly realized how she must look, splayed, so she pulled her legs together. Long fingers, Rhaegar’s, gripped her shoulders and helped her up.

Elia’s backside was erupting in pain, and she stood up hunched. “Where were you running?” she asked irritated, forgetting her courtesy, hand on hip. 

Arthur and Rhaegar looked at each other.

“My sincere apologies Elia, we were late to escort Lady Lannister to the throne room.“

Elia and Ashara looked at each other, and then Ashara giggled. “So you ran, like green boys?” Ashara asked. The two men blushed and looked at each other again, as Whent guffawed in reply. 

“We don’t want to keep you back,” Elia said grimacing, resting against Ashara, “Goodbye,” she said abruptly turning, “Aaaaa.”

Rhaegar looked concerned, “Lady, are you alright? Must I call a maester?”

“No, it is only a sore –“ she looked at Ashara and they burst out in giggles. A pink blush rose up Rhaegar’s cheeks and he hastily bid them farewell.

They walked to Cersei Lannister’s chambers.  
\----

When Cersei Lannister stepped out in a red and gold gown, she looked as though she was from a song. Her golden hair was tied up at the crown of her head, with fragile wisps brushing her face. Her lips were pink and full; eyes emerald green with gold in the centre. The deep cut of her gown, exposing small perfect breasts, showed her youth. True, it was a stretch to call her the most beautiful woman in the realm, having seen Ashara Dayne, but she was breath-taking. No doubt, many lords wanted her. She smiled at him, her eyes widening, bewitched by the Dragon Prince. The evident truth that she wanted him, pleased him. Such a thing could not be said with certainty in Elia’s case. 

“Your Grace,” she curtsied. Impeccable manners. “Lady Lannister, you look a golden beauty. Did you rest well?” She held out her hand for him, and he laid a soft kiss like a tattoo, placing his lips there for longer than a moment. She smiled back at him again. He would have to play the gallant and chivalrous knight for this one, he could see her head was full of dreams, unlike Elia. He would certainly enjoy his part.

“Yes, your Grace. It was uneventful.”

“Call me Rhaegar please.” He hooked his arm in hers, and her skin was blissfully soft. She near melted into his arms, unlike Elia who was frigid. She was easy to guide, and followed his movements. Young, soft, beautiful, with several years of child-bearing ahead and hopefully, the wits of her father. 

He fervently hoped his father would have wits enough to see it.  
\----

Ashara dragged Arthur into Elia’s chambers and slammed the door. Arthur began to protest, “Oh come on, Arthur, Rhaegar said it was fine.”

Elia pulled over two chairs wordlessly, around the little table, leaving Sarella to sit on the bed. Arthur hastily moved to assist her. His hand brushed hers in the process, and a deep blush rose in his cheeks.

He had been taking pains to avoid her the past two-and-half days. That night they had kissed once, but long. Arthur had left as soon as the kiss was over, without a word, shocked at himself, as she lay, stunned, in her bed, and unable to sleep, her heart all over the place and his name, his voice, his face, his armour, his kiss, his hair and smell inexplicably branded in her head. Her mind became a prison of feelings and thoughts she could not escape. 

Ashara sat down and stabbed the lemon cake, “You should have seen her, all over the Dragon Prince.” Her face was set in a furious scowl. “All smiles, and touching him whenever she could in front of everybody, as though she owned him. Even in the throne room, in front of the King! The little whore.” Sarella gurgled as if in agreement. 

“You sound like Aerys,” Elia whispered and Arthur chuckled. 

“Elia,” Ashara threw up her arms, “You have to do something! You can’t let her seduce him! And she is Rhaella’s lady-in-waiting, so she also has influence with the queen.” Sarella rolled on the table, and faced up to the ceiling. Elia felt an anxious roiling in her stomach, she had not talked to Rhaella properly yet. She seemed to be praying in the Sept at most times, no doubt avoiding Aerys.

Arthur’s eyes were distant as he poured himself some tea, “I don’t see why she shouldn’t marry him.” Ashara slammed her hands on the table, and Sarella shuddered, eyes wide with shock. He placed a hand on Ashara’s to calm her.

Ashara chose a different track this time, “Arthur, you are Rhaegar’s best friend, do you honestly think he will be happy with that scheming bitch?” “Ashara,” Elia scolded, but Ashara continued, “Only this morning, I overheard her call you the sick serpent.” 

They sat in shocked silence. She folded her hands, and settled back, a satisfied, angry smile on her face. Sarella whimpered and rolled to Elia.

“Well it is not untrue,” Elia stuttered.

Arthur looked at her sharply, and she felt her heart jump to her throat, “She does seem a little too cunning for her age. But, the way she looked at Rhaegar, she seemed in love.”

Elia nodded, “She probably is, she is only a girl.”

“Oh my dear brother and cousin,” Elia flinched, “She is a Lannister of Casterly Rock. She wants to be queen, not Rhaegar’s wife.” Ashara said, emphasizing each word with knife stabbing dangerously near Elia’s fingers. The baby tried to catch the knife with a fat hand, and Elia hastily pulled her back.

“Can you read minds?” Arthur asked hastily, sipping his tea, “She is only a little girl. Let her have her dreams.” 

Ashara glared at him, “You of all people, have to change Rhaegar’s mind, Arthur, for Elia’s sake. Elia is your cousin and friend, don’t you care about her? Don’t you think they would make a fine pair?”

Elia suspected that Ashara’s anger was more directed at Elia leaving King’s Landing, away from her, if she did not marry Rhaegar. Ashara had only been in King’s Landing for a week before she came, but she had already complained of loneliness. “But nothing is worse than Starfall,” she said, “It is just me and those empty walls, and father babbling in his sleep about mother. And without Arthur, without anybody but father, I nearly died of loneliness.” She was already turning heads in King’s Landing with her tall frame, bewitching violet eyes, as violet as the Mad King and the Dragon Prince and Rhaegar. Her beautiful full lips, and dark hair that cascaded to her back, straight as pin, made Cersei Lannister look like a silly golden doll. 

After a long pregnant pause, Arthur shook his head, whispering, strained, as though every word hurt him, “Rhaegar can fawn over whichever girl he likes but in the end it is Aerys-“  
There was a knock on the door. Two Lannister guards were present outside when Arthur opened it, and Cersei Lannister’s voice rose, sweet and high, “Am I interrupting Ser Dayne? I thought I might greet the Lady of Dorne.” Princess, Elia itched to correct. 

Arthur nodded, “If you please, I will take my leave,” he glanced over at Ashara and let his eyes rest upon Elia for a few moments before bowing and leaving.

“Thank you Sir Dayne.” She stepped in, in a beautiful gown of gold and green and still looked childish near the stately Ashara who was dressed in a simple grey. “You may stay outside,” she told the guards. Elia and Ashara rose and they politely greeted one another. Sarella gave the little curtesy she had been taught, giggling.

Elia settled in Arthur’s chair, leaving her’s for Cersei.

“Anything to eat, my lady?” she asked Cersei.

“Oh lemon cakes, I love them.” She took a tiny piece of cake, so tiny it was ludicrous. “You may call me Cersei.”

“And you may call us by our names. This is Sarella.” Ashara hadn’t said a word, and Elia was afraid she might act like Oberyn when angry. Cersei smiled at Sarella and gathered her in her arms. 

“Has your brother arrived safely? Is he well?”

“Thank you for the concern, Elia. He has not been injured. It seems like Jaime will keep me company in King’s Landing.”

“For your stay?” Ashara asked with a dangerous sweetness.

“Yes, my long stay.” Cersei said, one side of her lip curling up.

Elia shivered. “It is sad that Ser Harlan fell ill so suddenly as soon as Jaime came. He was a fine knight. What do you think, Elia?” Ashara asked.

“The older we get, the frailer we become, do you not think?” Cersei replied slowly.

“The timing of his illness is convenient.”

“Oh dear, Ashara, you must not say such things. Harlan was a gallant knight and his illness saddens me.” She placed a hand on her chest and gently sighed. Elia felt a strange urge to comfort her. She looked like Tyene when in sorrow. Sarella rubbed Cersei’s chest, gurgling to her. 

“No doubt,” Ashara said, lifting her cup to sip some tea.

And then Elia saw it, the way Cersei’s eyebrows dropped and a look of pure hatred crossed her eyes for a second, before leaving. 

Then she placed her other hand on Elia’s and she tried not to flinch, “How is your health, Elia? I heard you were sick.”

“I am always sick. I hear you have dubbed me the sick serpent. A nice name.” Cersei laughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say. She placed the baby, who was now drooling, on the table. “Oh you are funny,” she said lamely, “Though I would never call you that. Rhaegar was very good to inquire after your health.”

Elia nodded, mute. Ashara asked, “How old are you Cersei? Thirteen?”

“Fourteen.”

“Next year? Rhaegar will turn twenty-one next year. Quite a difference don’t you think. Rhaegar might want someone more- refined, a companion, with wisdom and tastes akin to his.”

Elia wanted to hit Ashara. Cersei responded without batting an eyelash. “But in the end, a princess must bear children,” she said sadly, looking Elia over, “That is our foremost duty, do you not think?”

Ashara bristled, her eyes wide with anger, hands inching towards her butter knife. Elia felt tired and worn. She wanted to call Arthur, and curl into his arms. “I feel tired,” she said briefly. “I think I will rest for a while.”

Btu Cersei only wanted to put salt on her wounds, “By the Seven, Elia, I am so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you by talking of being strong for childbirth-“

“It is no matter, I am the sick serpent after all,” Elia said following it with a bitter laugh turning into an odd bark and a cough. And another. And then she was doubled over, incoherent. Cersei flinched, moving away from her as Sarella crawled to Elia on the table. Ashara came to Elia, smoothing her back, and glared at Cersei. 

Cersei stood up, “I will take my leave then. I hope you become better, Elia.” But, there was nothing but malice in her voice. She left with a confident swagger of her hips. As the door slammed, Elia collapsed on the bed, hugging Sarella, with Ashara asking if she needed to get a maester.


	8. A Father Commands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tartini's Devil's Trills Sonata  
> Imagine Aerys' eyeballs slowly sliding to meet yours as his lips curve into a cruel smile as you listen to this

“Elia?” She opened one lazy eye. “Elia?” Oberyn was bending next to her in the darkness.

“Ellaria is with child.” She hummed a question.

“I must leave,” he drew himself straight. She had scarce seen her brother since that dinner – it had been three days.

She scrambled to sit, his hands on her shoulders, calming her. “Take me with you!”

“No Elia, the king will not allow it, and Doran will be furious.”

“To the hells with Doran! I want to go home. We’ll take Ashara with us.”

“No Elia.” Her brothers’ eyes were the shade of cat's eye in the moonlight. “The King told me he will marry you to Rhaegar. I doubt he will change his mind. He has me followed everywhere and I am sick of being a prisoner. Ellaria needs me.”

Elia calmed down and nodded, her childishness disappearing as her sleep slowly left her. 

“Have a safe journey, brother,” and then, “Are you taking Sarella?”

“Yes, is that alright?” he asked, gathering the baby in his arms, who was still sleeping. 

She nodded reluctantly. Oberyn bent again and pecked Elia on the lips as he did on rare occasions. She smiled at him, “Look after Ellaria for me. You should marry her. You love her so.”

“No, Doran would be livid,” he sighed, suddenly looking older than he was, “I told Arthur that if Rhaegar or the Mad King harms you, he is to throw his vows to the wind, kidnap you and bring you to Dorne.”

Elia bit her lip, squirming pleasurably at the thought, “Poor Arthur would probably die of confusion if such a thing happened,” she whispered and Oberyn chuckled, pressed a final kiss to her hair and left with a final glance that said more than his mouth ever could.

\------

Rhaegar sat in the library again, pouring over maps. The boy had appeared in the fighting yard yesterday and had asked if he had anything in return for the Lannister lord. He had asked him to come this evening, and so he was busy preparing a letter to Tywin. Arthur was snoring peacefully next to him, and Whent who was scratching between his legs, caught Rhaegar’s eye and stopped. 

Rhaegar sighed and leaned back. The proposition of his marriage kept distracting him. What had he hoped for- to fall in love? That was out of question. Somehow, the two women seemed unsatisfactory. Rhaegar had initially felt pleased by the delicate features of Cersei, the gentle curve of her wrist, her dainty ankles, her fair breasts, and the way she leaned against him. A few minutes’ walk with her in the garden was enough to dislike her, however. She was sly and petulant, almost cunning, and seemed to admire his visage too much, though that flattered him. She was also exceedingly proud, already carrying herself like a queen, yet lacking the quiet dignity for it because of her evident sense of superiority, just like her twin brother - always smiling, even at inopportune moments, a smug smirk permanently plastered on his face. Rhaegar greatly disliked men and women who were not humble. So, after that, he had avoided her. All he wanted was to throw her on a bed, rip off her clothes and get a child on her, which would be after the marriage. He did not want to be acquainted with her until then.

That means I hold no true love for her, he thought sadly.  
Rhaegar had known love. It was a servant girl, Jude. She was not exceptional looking, yet she was witty and charming. She had dimples on both cheeks and raven hair. He had quietly taken every opportunity to take a bath, just to see her, and he would always request that she comb his hair. Her smooth, hot, tiny fingers always sent tendrils of something hot and cold coursing through him. Love, meant that woman was always in your head, and made the world and life seem beautiful. But she was much older than him, and father-  
-no he would not think upon that. The doors flew open and Aerys glided in, hunched and gaunt. Rhaegar guided the letter into one of the thick books on the table near him, discreetly, knowing that discovery of his correspondence with Tywin could mean his head or the fires as father would suspect a plot to overthrow him. Luckily he had kept addressing Tywin for last. Plot, treason, treachery were words oft in his father’s lips these days, not without cause, the king's own behavior being the sole cause.

Aerys sat before him, and dismissed everyone but Arthur and himself, “I know you will tell this one everything.”

His father was in one of his good moods, but his eyes had a light Rhaegar did not like. It was a light that heralded that he was anticipating something pleasurable to him.

“Tired of the lioness bitch?”

“No father, she is most pleasant company with impeccable manners. She is beautiful and fair.”

“You sound as though you are convincing yourself, Rhaegar. You are like me, you tire of women fast,” his father laughed, reminiscing.

“The prophecy, father,” he said weakly, “I need a strong woman.”

“To whelp three children?” Rhaegar winced at his brutal summary of his motives.

Aerys looked into the burning fire, flames dancing in his violet eyes. “The Dornish whore will whelp you children just fine. She has wider hips that the lioness bitch.” Arthur shifted, scratching his neck where armour met skin.

Aerys looked up at him sharply. “Do you have a problem with me calling her a Dornish whore Arthur?”

“No - your Grace.” 

Aerys gazed at him piercingly. “You certainly took a long time to escort the whore to her chambers after the dinner.”

“Elia was sick. I had to make sure she was fine.”

“Father,” Rhaegar said, keeping his anger in check, “There is nothing between Arthur and Elia. They are only companions. As to the problem of her being my wife, she is not very well. I fear that may be passed on to our children or be a threat to her-“

“Listen to me Rhae, my sweet,” Aerys cooed, “Do not worry about that. If the Dornish whore is barren, or bears you sick children, or unfaithful- only a word from you and I will feed her to the fires myself.”

Rhaegar shivered, “So you are adamant that I marry her?”

“Yes,” the king said.

“What of other options, Catelyn Tully is Cersei’s age. Lyanna Stark is young but I could wait for her marriage-“

The king roared, “Do not wake the dragon Rhaegar!,” he slammed his hand on the table and stood up to hulk over him, “I did not decide to marry the bitch Rhaella, and you will marry as I say. I married as my father said! I don’t care if you take your pleasure elsewhere, but Dorne must be secured. Did you hear me? With the power of Dorne behind us, Doran Martell’s endless plotting falls to pieces and our throne is more secure!”

Rhaegar breathed deeply, sat still for a while and then, “Fine father, I will do as you say.”

“Good boy,” his father said, and he was shocked at how thin and weak his father he looked, “You are a good boy. You are the only one on my side, when everyone wants me dead. Do you love me, Rhae?”

“I love you father.” There was a time when he did. 

“Will you die for me?”

“I will die for you.”

Tears filled his father’s eyes as he gripped Rhaegar’s face, admiring it, “My strong boy, my only pride.” Then his bitter self returned, “You will marry her next week, and whelp three children.”

“Yes father.”

“My son, the trials will begin in the evening,” he surveyed the ink bottle and paper before him, “come to watch with me. What are you writing?”

“Notes, father,” he breathed, thinking wildly, “From the history book.” 

Aerys opened the book where he’d hidden the incomplete letter to Tywin. He quickly tried to think over what incriminating things he wrote in the letter. “The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms” Aerys read, “Some Maester’s rubbish. You have my father’s affliction for books. Exceedingly dull.” Rhaegar nearly died until he flipped over the pages between which the letter was hidden. Aerys shut the book with a slam, masking Rhaegar’s relieved sigh. He sneered at Rhaegar, “Go practice in the yard like a man, instead of shutting yourself in here like some maester.” Rhaegar nodded, mute, as Aerys left.  
Then he sat on his chair, hard, with a huge sigh. His life was in shambles.


	9. Life is not a song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camille Saint-Saens - Danse Macabre  
> It literally is

The trial of Lord Peckledon ended with his burning in the dungeons as expected. The man’s screams echoed through the walls. 

Ser Barristan had conveyed the news of her imminent wedding to Ashara, drawn graciously tall, helmet in hand. Rhaegar had scheduled it for the next week. The Lord’s cries only made her more fearful of her new home. It reminded her of when the King had held her chin and called her exquisite.

She shuddered. Ashara was humming around, trying to make her pick designs for her wedding gown. “Where’s Arthur?” she asked suddenly.

“With the Prince no doubt. Why? You should perhaps wear orange for Dorne, but you do look good in red.”

“What colour will you wear?”

“Oh, I’ve already picked a powder blue one, no matter. Do you want slanted sleeves? Most of the ladies in the Keep wear them now.”

Elia sighed and cradled her head in her hands. She missed Sarella. “Ashara?” she asked, as Ashara turned over the parchments of various designs from the royal dress-makers with good humour, “Yes?”

“Please just pick a dress. Anything you like.”

She turned to her exasperated-  
when there was a knock on the door. “Please come in,” Elia said. 

“If you’re not a Faceless man,” Ashara remarked drily. 

Rhaegar stepped in and Ashara scrambled to stand up, face set in a comic expression of shock. 

“Do not fret, I do not mean to kill the future princess,” he replied in his soft voice.

Only Oswell stood next to him, and he japed, “Though he would, to have a certain golden cunt.” Rhaegar ignored him. 

Rhaegar, unfazed, moved toward Elia. Ashara made to leave.

“No, that will not be necessary.” Three dressmakers streamed in behind him.

“I asked Arthur to acquaint you and Ashara with these three dressmakers, some of the best in the realm.” Arthur had certainly acquainted Ashara, but not her. “Have you decided on a design?”

“Ashara will decide for me.” 

Rhaegar looked at her quizzically. Oswell pulled out a chair for him and he sat in front of Elia’s bed, leaning toward them.

“It will be a wedding to lift the small-folks’ spirits and no expense will be spared. You must look the part,” he added to Elia. “I want you to wear something that is more suitable for the throne, less Dornish. The dressmakers and I thought of this.” He handed a design to her. It was a proper gown, a light gold in colour, with long slanted sleeves, and a deep cut. 

“The cut can’t be so deep,” she said immediately. Her chest was almost flat. 

“Fine, make the change,” he ordered the dress-makers. His seriousness, authority, and desire for perfection, reminded her that he had borne responsibility since a young age. She felt a stab of pity for Rhaegar. 

“Then we can expose more of your shoulders?” one of the dressmakers asked.

“Yes, but not too much. She will look frail”

“We will add padding to her gown to make her seem – fuller.”

Rhaegar nodded. “The Sept of Baelor will be decorated with fresh orange chrysanthemums and red roses to symbolize the union of our two houses.” He hummed a funny two-note, “Would you like chrysanthemums or Dornish sunset flowers?”

“Dornish sunset flowers,” she breathed smiling.

Ashara piped up, “Make her gown the same colour.”

“I thought so. Yes, my lady,” Rhaegar added, still serious. “Our business here is finished.” He made to the door. “One more thing,” he looked at her, up and down, “You are far too dark. We must make you seem light-skinned,” he addressed the dress-makers, “When you dress her, make sure to whiten her. It does not matter if it is obvious, for the small-folk will only see her from a distance.”

He left, the door clicking shut and the commotion he brought left with him.

Ashara sat on the bed with a sigh and looked at her. Elia felt crushed, defeated. “This is my lot in life now,” she said, taking Ashara’s hand, “taking orders from a prince, and being shamed for being Dornish.” Ashara didn’t have anything to say, fair skinned and once enthusiastic for the wedding as she was. She offered her the refuge of her arms.

\------------

Her gown was light gold. It padded her breasts and below the waist. Her skin was dusted with powder until she was a sickly grey-white. Her brown lips were reddened with berry essence until they looked bloody. Fragile gold jewellery lay across her neck. The only concession allowed her was her mother’s bracelet. She looked like someone else. 

Barristan Selmy came to collect her and she saw the judgement in his eyes. Not worthy of the prince he loves, she thought. “I want Arthur to take me,” Elia stuttered, “he is the closest I have to a brother.” Selmy nodded, glanced over at a falsely cheerful Ashara and left.

Ashara looked more the bride in her light blue gown, which emphasized her violet eyes. She came over to her, her lips stretching in a forced smile, “Beautiful,” she lied. Elia wanted to rip Ashara’s gown to shreds. She bit her lip. She would not let Rhaegar make her a bitter woman. 

She stood up as Arthur came in, his eyes saddening when he took in her appearance. He wordlessly took her arm. She did not want empty words, she only wanted the comfort he provided. Together they strode towards the Sept of Baelor, a retinue of her new ladies-in-waiting following her. 

Arthur led her through the Hall of Lamps, his arm firm upon her. “Why didn’t Oberyn come?” he asked suddenly.

“It is best that he does not see me like this,” her voice wavered and broke slightly.  
Even in the worst of times, Arthur defended his prince, “You could only have asked Rhaegar, and he would not have forced this upon you.” She imagined the ladies around her were tittering about the sudden change in her skin’s colour and held her tongue.

Arthur led her to the base of the altar between Father and Mother, where Rhaegar waited for her. She ascended the steps. He had left no expense spared for his appearance. He wore a majestic, short, black scaled doublet, with a giant rubied dragon on it, a long velvet red tunic and black breeches and boots. His plait was done in a familiar fish-tail braid that made her smile. His eyes were full of a question. It would be answered later. 

The septon began: “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Rhaegar swept the Tagaryen cloak around her shoulders. It felt heavy, burdensome. She saw Cersei Lannister in the crowd of the Sept, face twisted in jealousy and longing.

Rhaegar then took her hand, and the septon tied it together with a white ribbon.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity." She closed her eyes and swallowed. 

"Look upon one another and say the words." 

Rhaegar turned to her. His eyes sparkled a true Tagaryen purple for the first time- dark though they was- in the candlelight. She had always seen them as dark blue.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am his” - “hers and he” – “she is mine from this day until the end of my days." Rhaegar spoke faster than her, and she rushed to keep up. She accidentally caught the Mad King’s eye, and he was preening with excitement. 

Rhaegar leaned forward to kiss her, turning her head with cold fingers. She had to stand on tiptoe, because he was tall. His grasp on her chin was near painful as he laid a perfunctory kiss, more for the crowd than themselves, and his pale lips came stained with berry essence.

The bells of Baelor’s Sept tolled with Elia’s heartbeat.

\------------

The day was filled with mummer shows, free food and gifts for the people of King’s Landing, though there was no tourney, for Rhaegar did not care much for them. This led to loud cheering when the prince and princess were brought out on destriers, she riding side-saddle. Bribed into loving me, Elia thought, smiling to herself as she waved to the crowds. She gave her gold studs away to two small orphans who looked piteously thin, the Kingsguard struggling to keep the people of Flea Bottom away. These are my people now, she thought as Rhaegar picked up one of the children and encircled him in his arms, much to the child’s pleasure. He laughed at her, pointing at how the child kept turning back in awe to see the Dragon Prince, and it was the most natural expression she had seen on his melancholic face. 

“Where is your mother?” Rhaegar yelled at the child above the cheering.

The child squealed back, “My parents are dead!”, still smiling. Rhaegar’s face darkened and he clutched the half-starved child firmly to his chest all the way back to the Keep. 

Once the gates closed, Rhaegar gave the boy to Whent, commanding him to give the orphan a place in the stables and proper meals. 

The boy promptly escaped Whent’s arms, thinking he was in trouble, and tore Elia’s bracelet from her wrist, running frantically toward the gates. Rhaegar turned on the seat of his horse, agitated, as the boy was quickly caught by guards surrounding the king.

Rhaegar turned his horse back towards the king.

\-----------

While Rhaegar and Elia had received boisterous cheers, the king’s palanquin a few moments away had received deathly silence. For that, a young boy would pay with his life, and Rhaegar and Elia were commanded to watch it. 

Rhaegar had pleaded with his father, and even yelled at him near the entrance, when Aerys had hinted that the orphan would be burnt. It was an uncomfortable, dishonorable scene on her wedding day. Finally Aerys had broken into an outburst that silenced Rhaegar and terrorized the crowd of fifty gathered, “Do not provoke the dragon! Men who commit sin will be burnt! Today the boy steals a necklace, tomorrow he will rape, murder and threaten the peace of the realm! You will not dare think to advice me or defy me when you plot behind me behind my back! I will burn you. I will rape your wife and put her head on a spike outside for the Red Viper to admire.” Rhaegar had silently walked away after that, without a word.

And so, there had been a burning in the Throne Room, a young voice screaming as green fires engulfed him. Tears flowed down her eyes, as the king watched, the flames dancing in his cruel eyes. Rhaegar had shut himself in his chambers with Arthur, but the king had commanded her to watch, slipping her bracelet around her wrist and smiling up at her when all was over. 

She trembled and turned. Queen Rhaella grabbed her hand and pulled her away. “Go up to get ready for the feast,” she said, her violet eyes gleaming, “I will get Rhaegar. We must act as though nothing happened yes? The wedding will go on as usual.” She sighed and looked up at the king, “He has never done this in public before, but appearances must be kept up.”

\----------

The table had been laid in the Grand Hall for the wedding feast and the food had arrived long before Rhaegar strode in, with Arthur trailing. Near a thousand guests – the royal family, great lords, lesser lords, mummers, merchants and bards were gathered, seated in their places by rank. A mummer show on Aegon the Conqueror and sixty-nine courses were finished, leaving only one to go. Elia tensed when the king saw him enter, but he only nodded to him with half-closed, suspicious eyes and Rhaegar reciprocated. She felt Rhaegar settle next to her briskly. He began, “My princess, I regret to not have dressed you in sunset orange for the wedding, now that I see you in this gown. You are truly breath-taking.”

The boy still burned in her mind’s eye. “There is no need for these pleasantries between a man and wife anymore Rhaegar.”

“Your Grace,” the king said dangerously soft, “You will call him your Grace. Or I will have your head on a spike.”

Elia hunched her shoulders, “Yes, your Grace, I apologise.”

“Dornish liars, plotters,” he whispered as Rhaella calmed him, stroking his arm. He pulled it away harshly. 

Elia smiled at Viserys opposite her. He looked at his father, “Dornish whore!” he shouted in his childish voice, pointing at her. 

Elia felt Arthur’s hand rest on her bare shoulder for a moment, reassuring her. But Aerys’ sharp eye had caught the motion, “Guard your whore from the Sword of the Morning, or his sword may be in her in the morning.” Some of his lackeyed companions, minor lords wishing to curry his favour and enemies of Tywin Lannister, laughed at his stale jape. 

Rhaegar stilled at the insult, his face calm and dangerous. An insult to his betrothed was shoulderable, but an insult to his wife and his trusted companion in the middle of a large gathering of lords was unbearable.

A handsome man with a beard and a wine cup in his large hands – the Lord of Storm’s End - broke the tension, “Where is the bard? Where is the enjoyment in this feast?”

At that a bard came forth, beginning the slow, romantic strands of ‘My Lady Wife’. Rhaegar held out his hand to her, and they both danced on the floor. He was a graceful, exemplary dancer, and Elia knew that all the ladies in the room would give anything to be with him. Yet, she danced with him, her back straight, frail body struggling to keep up with his fluid motions. She noticed that Rhaegar didn’t allow her to move freely, he gripped her shoulder and guided her movements subtly as though she was a child. It was hard to remember that she was four years older than him. He pulled her closer, his hand pressing into her back, and she could smell his sweat and wine. “I have something to tell you tonight.”

She gave a short laugh in her throat at that, “You will.”

“Do not jape,” he pulled his head away from her, surveying her under half-closed eyes that startlingly reminded her of Aerys, “It is something that concerns the fate of the realm. It is something that I have lived my life for.” Elia’s mouth parted in puzzlement.

“For appearance’s sake,” he said, and laid a kiss on her lips. This time he savoured it, pulling at her lower lip as he withdrew. It was not like the kiss at the sept, this was a kiss of lust, and he had wanted it.

“You have not worn your powder-“

“That was the first and last time I wore powder for you,” Elia warned, her anger pouring through her frail body, “If you do not like my skin, then kill me and find a fairer wife.”

“Do not speak that way,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “The powder was only for appearances’ sake.” He stopped dancing and stepped away, making his way towards the bard. 

She was swept into the arms of the Storm Lord, who fell all over her, distastefully drunk. And two more lords who tried to subtly push their various agendas with Rhaegar, as the Prince glided through the room, making effortless conversation and dancing with Ashara. 

Finally, Rhaegar took her hand again as Aerys was requesting for “The Dornishman’s wife”.

“How did you know about Jude?” Rhaegar asked suddenly, wanting to catch her off-guard.

“I will tell you after you tell me your great secret.”

“All these secrets and we may not have time to do our – duty,” he was quite drunk, “Arthur has been making dog-eyes at you all this while. Go dance with him.” She glared at him, which others in the room must have taken as a passionate stare. 

Arthur took her in his arms, his steps clumsy, fumbling with the time. But his arms were large and comforting. She wanted nothing more than melt into them so he would carry her to bed-

\- “I was never good at dancing,” he mumbled in apology.

“Never mind,” she bit back happy laughter that rose in her throat.

“Don’t lean against me so much, the king will see.”

She leaned away, “Is this alright?” she teased.

Arthur’s eyes saddened. She looked into the violet she had come to love so much.

“I dream of you,” she breathed to him.

“You must not.”

“Tonight, when I will be under the Prince-“ it was better to ask some things before it was too late. Before she was old and filled to the brim with regret.

“Elia-“

“Will you be jealous?”

Arthur’s eyebrows knitted together in anger. She smiled caustically, a tear rolling down her cheek.

He lost himself in the impossibly moist, obsidian black, those wide-set eyes and clever brows. Her frail body under the silk seemed so fragile. He wanted to protect her from the king, from Rhaegar, from all the barbs and insults and unhappiness she faced here.

They could run away and go back to Sunspear, taking Ashara with them. He would play with Elia again in the Water Gardens, only it would be a kind of different game and in darkness-  
“I will close my eyes and pretend it is you,” she whispered in his ear, and he looked at her, dazed, a painful lump rising in his throat.


	10. Wed to Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Bela Bartok's Violin Concerto No. 2  
> Because, Bartok.

“Bedding!” a drunk voice called and it multiplied in moments like Freys. Arthur stilled. Hands began to grope her from nearby, grabbing her from him. They tore her gown and hoisted her body up.

She heard Aerys scream, “There will be stripping only for the whore. Nobody will touch dragonspawn!”

She still had her smallclothes on when she tumbled into the chambers, because Arthur had pushed her in before they could remove them. Rhaegar was fully clothed, and that made her feel vulnerable. He held out a dark robe for her, and she wore it, feeling the smooth material against her skin. She shivered in the cold.  
“It is cold. Get under the blankets,” Rhaegar ordered. She remained sitting, defying him purposefully. 

Rhaegar began to methodically remove his clothes, glaring at her defiance. She lowered her eyes in response, unable to meet the heat of his anger. His doublet came off first, thrown on the ground. Elia felt that he would remove his clothes the same way if she was not in the chamber. He turned around and removed his tunic, revealing a heavily muscled back, scarred in a few places, much like Oberyn’s, only thinner, but so pale he glowed in the sparse moonlight. Elia turned away from him when he began to undo his breeches. 

“Elia,” he cooed softly, his voice honeyed. She turned almost unconsciously and saw the long, hard shaft between his legs. He sat next to her and gently undid the tassel around her waist, slipping the robe around her shoulders. She closed her eyes, for she knew what he would see, as he undid her smallclothes.

A nearly flat chest with pitifully small breasts, protruding ribs and a slight belly from her lack of physical exertion. Stick thin legs, and dark, coarse curly hair at the joint between them. He would have to see her only truly beautiful parts – she would put on a show for him as he had. She moved in front of him, her back to him, letting him look at how the unimaginably slender place below her chest widened beautifully, like a spear, into her hips and ample arse. She undid the pins in her hair slowly, letting her thick, curly waves flow onto her back. She turned her face to look at him, her chain gleaming in her throat. 

Rhaegar had hardened even further when he looked at her hair and back. She was beautiful- from the back. He wanted to take her like a whore, bent against the windowsill.

Elia secretly hoped he would take her from the back so she would not have to look at him.

Yet, “Move,” she commanded, her voice husky, pleased when Rhaegar complied, moving to the other side of the bed. She slipped under the blankets finally, reveling in the warmth.

“Being a princess suits you,” he said.

“I was always a princess,” she replied, her obsidian eyes reflecting the flames in the hearth, “The Princess of Dorne. You wrongly addressed me the first time we met.”

“But not a true princess. Only a Tagaryen can be a princess,” he murmured, and she swallowed her frustration.

“First time?” she asked gruffly, catching him off-guard and he lied after a pause that betrayed him, “No.”

She smiled slyly. The knob in his throat bobbed. “ I must tell you something,” he hesitated unsure. 

“Your secret?”

“Not necessarily my secret,” he said, “A select few, almost all of our house, know of it, for it concerns us.” 

“What is it?”

His face shifted, his eyes becoming deeper pools of indigo, mouth set. “There is a prophecy,” he began, “Thousands of years old.” He paused, studying her face, “Some years from now, the realm will be in grave danger from forces that will threaten the existence of all men. And in this chaos that threatens to destroy the world, a prince will rise.”

His voice grew softer, and the shadows lengthened on his face, already dark from facing away from the hearth. “He will be the prince that was promised. And he will be a Dragon prince, that will save us from darkness, death and misery.” 

Elia screwed up her eyes. “Who put this horseshit in your head? Varys?” 

He stared at her silent. “There was a woods-witch once,” he spoke slowly, looking into her eyes, “she prophesied the prince that was promised would be born in the line of Aerys and Rhaella. Have you heard of greenseers?”

Elia made a skeptical expression, “The Dornish are not foolish enough to believe in greenseers, the Others, grumpkins or children of the forest. We only believe in what we see.”

Rhaegar rose over her in a swift motion. He was breathing hard in anger, his eyes blazing. Cold fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her stomach, making her bite back a cry of pain.

“You are not Dornish now, but a Tagaryen.” he growled, his fingers pressing harder, “Never forget.”

She swallowed her fear, “So you think you are the prince that was promised?”

“When I was near a man grown,” he brought his face so close to hers, she could count every white eyelash, “I found something in the library,” he hesitated, breathing on her lips, “That led me to believe I might be the prince that was promised. But,” he looked down at her lips, “I have reason to believe that is no longer the case.”

He lowered his lips to hers – that small, queerly shaped mouth- and pressed on it. As he pulled away, she bit his upper lip hard, in revenge for the bruises on her belly. Blood dripped on her neck as he moved away. 

“Our son will be the prince, is what you believe,” she stated. 

“I have reason to believe it,” he licked the blood from his lips, taken aback. 

She moved up and caught his thin, bloody lips in hers. She moved against him with a rhythm that stirred a primal instinct in him, parting his lips with her tongue, pushing it in and pulling it out in a rhythm that increased his hardness against her thigh at the insinuation.

“Who taught you that?” he breathed.

“Arthur,” she replied, chanting his name like a prayer.

He lowered himself next to her and looked at her neck. Elia believed that her arse and hair were most arousing to him – they were, but for her hair which was a bit coarse, but he most admired her long, thin, fragile neck. It was golden in the light from the hearth and droplets of his dark blood dripped in trickles from it. He wanted to kiss it, bite it and crush it at the same time.

“Arthur is just outside, guarding our chambers,” he whispered, and it pleased him to see her obsidian eyes widen, “But I promised Whent I would make you scream.”

“This prince,” she stuttered, “how will you know if he is the one?”

“That is not of your concern.”

“Am I to only be the body bearing your babies?”

“You will be the mother that brings the prince that was promised to this world. Take pride in that.”

“Oh Rhaegar, don’t put so much hope in one old wives’ tale like a child still in its mother’s skirts.”

She almost wanted to take the words back. His eyes turned on hers, blazing hot in anger. She peered in, and saw madness roiling within. 

“Do not mock the dragon,” he growled. He bit her neck near her chin and she moaned. He parted her legs with his rough hands so swift it hurt her. He bit her neck hard near the hollow of her throat, and blood filled his mouth. He tasted their mingled blood. 

“The prince that was promised.” He settled his hardness against her wet lips. “Say it.” He entered her and buried his sword to its hilt, and she screamed in the pain and harshness of his motion. He remained in her, reveling in her heat. He would steal her fire, her heat and finally her life. He speared her again, whispering “Say it.” A moan that began low in her throat rose up in a crescendo of a scream, then another, again and again. It was a beautiful song to Rhaegar’s ears. 

“Say it!” he commanded. He moved in her with an increasing urgency, violently stabbing her, brutishly plundering her depths. He bit at her neck savagely. 

“Please, please,” she gasped between her moans, hoarse. But, he only stabbed her more viciously. “Say it,” he warned. 

“Arthur! Arthur!“ Rhaegar covered her mouth with his hand, and her screams were muffled. Her hands scrambled to grip against his chest and back, neatly trimmed nails offering pitiful resistance to him. 

He took his hand off her mouth. He looked at her throat, stained with crimson blood, and the bones in her neck as they stood out when she moaned something incoherent. He leaned against her further and realized she was gasping “Kill me. Kill me,” tears streaming down her face. He gasped back and struggled for breath, spilled his seed in her, reaching his peak, and the world shattered before him in a thousand pieces like the scales on a dragon’s egg. His body shook uncontrollably as he collapsed next to her. 

Elia turned, exposing the smooth, golden back to him, now moist with sweat. He swept her blankets away, touched her luscious arse, and pulled it, exposing the ruin within, the deep dark brown turned to maroon, her maiden blood staining the sheet and the seed smeared slightly within. She began to sob gently as the air bit her sensitive place. 

“Elia,” he whispered. She turned to him, and he wiped the tears off her face with his fingers and knuckles. He took the dark robe, and dabbed at her throat, wiping off the blood and admiring the angry bruises he had made on them. 

She began to cough, and the cough deepened. He held her and a little blood splattered on his chest, until it subsided.

“Why don’t you kill me?” she whispered, hoarse, “Kill me here, on this bed with your dagger and marry someone else.”

“You woke the dragon,” Rhaegar said simply, “I’ve dedicated my whole life toiling for my people, my realm. And you threaten to ruin it with your mockery and selfishness.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. The passion having left him, he surveyed her neck coolly, “You must wear a high-necked gown until those fade.”

She whimpered. He asked, “How did you find out about Jude?”

Elia was silent for a long while, eyes closed. Then, she spoke softly, taking care to not hurt her throat further, “One of the maid-servants was tying up my hair and I was making conversation with her. I am oft lonely when Ashara decides to sleep in the afternoons. I will ask Doran to get me more ladies-in-waiting. The ones here are dreadfully empty of mind.” She paused and breathed deeply.

“You must keep my mother company then,” Rhaegar spoke.

She glanced sharply at him, “I will try to,” she gulped, “ The servant talked about Jude’s famous fishtail braid that would stay unperturbed all day and night.” She took his braid in her hand and sighed, “That has proved true. Then she babbled about how she would braid your hair everyday, and you would specifically request for it, sometimes more than thrice a day. That made me suspicious. Ashara and I convinced the reluctant maid to bring her to us from the kitchens,” she looked into his eyes, “I was curious to know what sort of woman attracted you. I found her well-mannered and charming, with sweet dimples, but there was nothing remarkable about her. She told us, crying, after much wine and conversation, about how Aerys raped her,” Rhaegar drew in a sharp, painful breath. 

There was a brief pause and his eyes turned distant, “She used to have a certain fire in her.”

“Whatever it was, it is absent now,” Elia smiled sadly, “The Tagaryens have the habit of stealing it.” They looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments, shared in their dread of a life together, before she closed her eyes.


	11. Love and Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mozart's Lacrimosa for Arthur and Elia  
> Sigh.
> 
> Clarification: I know a lot of people would probably think Rhaegar/Elia is going to be a straight up abusive relationship, but it's a lot more complicated than that, though what rhaegar did would be definitely wrong in our world. He isn't necessarily evil or anything.

Rhaegar woke up as the sun slanted its rays on his face. He watched his companion sleep, breathing against his chest. Her skin was dark brown in the dim, early morning light. He brushed his lips on her forehead gently and slipped out of bed, and she whispered “Oby,” in her sleep, thinking it was her brother.

When he slipped out of his chambers dressed, he saw Arthur wide awake, body tense like a strung bow, hand on the hilt of Dawn. Whent smirked, drowsy from the night-shift.

“Ser Dayne, you are excused today for rest. Oswell, guard the princess till she wakes. I will try to wrest Ser Barristan from Father for some yard practice.”  
“Blood up, your Grace? Sounded like a good show last night.” Whent said, a crooked smile on his face.

Rhaegar ignored him and turned to leave, but Arthur stayed him with his hand, brows knit together. “What did you do to her?”

Rhaegar ground his teeth in anger, “That is none of your concern, Arthur. It is not expected of a Kingsguard to question his prince.” He left, boots clicking on the Keep’s floor.

\--------

Ashara was brimming with excitement when Elia entered her chambers, Oswell leaving her with a mocking bow. There was no worse person in the whole of the Keep than Oswell to escort her to her chambers, smiling wickedly at her bow-legged, slow walk. She crumpled onto the bed.

“Oh, are you very tired? He must have kept you up all night,” Ashara sighed.  
Her two new ladies-in-waiting from Dorne, Anderra Yronwood and Sheila Qargoyle giggled. Her maid Freya, a known tattle-tale who had told her of Jude, smiled widely at her sewing. 

Elia sat up, running her hands through her hair, now tangled hopelessly. She realized that everyone was staring at her throat. “Give me a mirror,” she demanded.

“Oh my, you are hoarse! Did he make you scream?” Sheila asked, spurring the three women towards more excited laughter, her eyes bright with happy astonishment. Ashara looked relieved: she had been worried and guilty since the prince had asked Elia to lighten her complexion with powder. 

Elia saw the marks on her neck, brown and maroon. There was one near her chin, that could not be hid, but was thankfully light. The mark near the hollow of her throat was savage, large and a throbbing dark red. It would scar into an unseemly black and brown on her dark skin. Two more similar, but less severe bruises coated the length of her throat. 

Freya sat behind her and began to untangle her hair as she looked at the mirror in shock. 

“Not a word of this to anyone, all of you. I will wear high-necked gowns from now on,” she rasped. 

Ashara raised an eyebrow, “Rhaegar commanded me to,” she replied. And I am too scared to defy him any more. 

Anderra giggled, “Mayhaps he wants to be the only one to see your neck. It is quite pretty.”

Elia lowered her head, doubting it was the reason. More likely it was to make sure the realm did not know he was at heart mad and savage as his father. 

Ashara looked at the expression on her face worriedly. “Ladies, please take your leave. I think my cousin wishes to talk to me privately.” They left, smiling and talking to each other, “Freya, I will braid her hair.”

She sat on the floor in front of Ashara, who began to comb the hair with her fingers.

“Was it wonderful? Your first time? “

Elia turned around, not wanting to crush the little cousin’s dreams. Ashara touched her throat and smiled. “Do you want me to put some balm on that?”

Elia nodded, and Ashara fetched the balm from her dresser. The balm burnt against the scars of her throat. Elia let a single tear stream down her face.

Ashara cupped her chin, “Why are you crying?” she asked confused, “Elia, these scars- he’s marked you now, because he loves you. He wants to own you and protect you-“

“I don’t want him to own me,” Elia said through gritted teeth.

Ashara shook her head, and spoke to her like addressing a petulant child. “Do you not know what all of the ladies would give to marry the Dragon Prince? Do you know what Cersei would give to have those scars? They are beautiful.”

“They hurt,” Elia said, another tear sliding down her cheek, “and they are ugly.”

“No, no,” Ashara murmured, hugging her and beginning to cry, “You musn’t hate him.”

“I do not hate him,” Elia said softly, “I love…” she trailed off.

Ashara looked at her, eyes wide. “You love?”  
“Please go away.”  
“Elia-“  
“Just go away.”  
“Elia, he loves you. Don’t ruin everything.”

“I’m not ruining anything,” she said crying full-fledged now. “Go away. It is all your fault. I wish Cersei had married him and suffered his insults and his prowess in bed. Go away.”

“Elia, you bumbling fool! You have been handed every woman’s dream on a plate and your stupidity only stuns me. If you are determined to be miserable, then I cannot help you.” Ashara left the chamber, slamming the doors shut behind her.  
Elia slumped against the bed-frame. All she wanted was to run to Arthur and fall against his chest, sobbing. She wanted to ask him to show her how to fuck her sweet and loving, as Oberyn often claimed he did with Ellaria. She opened her dresser, and looked for something suitable to wear.

\---------

“Oswell, where is Arthur?” She wore a high-necked black gown, red-rimmed eyes her only jewellery.

“It would be no good for you to meet him now.”  
“He is my cousin, and I wish to meet him.”  
Oswell sighed and gestured with his hand for her to walk.

In his room in the White Sword Tower, Arthur was asleep on a narrow white bed, his long raven hair rustling gently in the wind. He slept with his hands lightly crossed on his waist, face serene and knightly.

“You may go to your room.”  
Oswell stood his ground, and glared at her, “The prince’s orders were to protect you for the day.”  
“Hush, you’ll wake him. What protecting do I need from a Kingsguard?”  
Oswell smiled wickedly, “From his cock, evidently.”  
“His Grace left me too sore for us to do any such thing,” she shot back softly.  
“I like you,” Oswell said, as he turned and left, scratching between his legs.

Elia closed the door softly behind her latching it. Arthur stirred slightly at the sound, but did not wake. She sat next to him, admiring his fierce face, the sharp turn of his eyebrows, and stubborn mouth that inspired awe and fear. She bent and kissed that mouth softly.

Arthur woke with a start, hand scrabbling for his sword. She moved away from him, afraid.  
“Elia,” he breathed, running his hands through his hair. His lip curved in anger, “What are you doing here?”  
“I needed to see you.”  
“Are you mad? Rhaegar will have our heads on spikes.” He grabbed her arm roughly and she grimaced.  
“Sorry,” he whispered and lessened his grip. She smiled through tears. If Arthur had married her, would he have apologized when he took her maidenhead?  
“Elia, you have to leave.”  
“Just a few minutes.”

He glanced to the door guiltily. He trapped her with his hand against the wall next to her face, breathing hard on her, whispering. “What were you thinking when you screamed my name last night, when Rhaegar was- was- loving you?”  
“I called to you for help, and you never came. Why?”  
“Do not lie. I know what you said when we danced.”  
“No,” Elia whispered, “He was hurting me.”  
Arthur shook his head. “Rhaegar would do no such thing. Go back to your chambers.” He took her arm again.

She undid the clasps on her neck to show him, frustrated that no-one would take her words over Rhaegar’s. His eyes widened with shock.  
“Rhaegar would do no such thing,” he repeated, struggling to convince himself. She whimpered, heart broken by his response. He saw her red eyes and tears and felt a mad rage that arose from within him, primal and irrational. In that moment, he would have forgotten his vows and driven his steel through Rhaegar.  
He touched her forehead with his and wiped at her tears with his large, callused fingers.

“Do you love me Arthur?”  
Arthur paused and looked at her, his face strangely expressionless, “Don’t be childish, Elia. I am a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to love no woman.”  
“So you choose duty over love?”  
“My duty is to the king and prince,” he moved away from her, and made for the door, “We are no longer children playing in the Water Gardens. You are a grown woman wed to the prince. Don’t act like a child Elia, though I know you want to be one. Rhaegar is my closest friend-“  
“He hurt me,” Elia said, “I begged him not to and he wounded me.” her eyes brimmed with new tears, “I hate him.” He killed Rhaegar in his mind’s eye, Dawn slicing through his chest. He closed his eyes, willing away the traitorous thoughts.

She walked to him and looked deep into his cold eyes, “I love you.” His eyes turned warm, the violet melting, as he stood, stunned.  
“I cannot say it back,” he choked finally, “I swore a vow.”  
“Then what of the kiss that night?”  
“It was a mistake,” he whispered hoarse, and she kissed him on the lips, softly pecking. Once, twice, thrice. He pulled away and stared at her, shocked. 

“Is this a mistake?”  
“Elia, please. No.”

He opened the door wide to stop her, and they found Whent lounging outside, picking his teeth. Elia fought the urge to scream at Whent. How much had he heard?  
Whent sighed and stood up, “Your collar is open, Ells. The king called us for supper remember? You can change out of your mourning gown and we can head to his solar.”  
“Elia,” Arthur began.  
“Arthur, since you are evidently rested enough for your cock to be straining in your breeches, Rhaegar will want you for practice in the yard.”  
Arthur nodded, and sighed, slamming the doors in their faces.  
Two people I love deeply have done this today, she thought sadly.

\---------

Rhaegar had never been violent. As a child, he was quiet and kept to his scrolls, and had only wanted to train with the sword when he knew of the prophecy. He detested tourneys, and battle, even more. His violence toward Elia shocked him. What was it about her that made him an animal? It was something to do with Elia that drove him mad with lust, her appearance of meekness with her quiet inner strength, her lack of beauty yet her sensuousness. Rhaegar’s cock hardened when he thought of her crescendo moans. They deserve to be set as a song. 

That morning, when he walked from her chambers, he had felt nothing but a burning shame and guilt that began from the depths of his stomach. Arthur’s voice echoed over and over in his head, “What did you do to her?” with how she chanted “Arthur”, like a holy word. It chilled him to his bones and made him want to kill them both. Burn them with wildfire, perhaps. 

An early supper with the king had proved exhausting. News of their violent love-making must have reached his ears, for he grinned his yellow teeth proudly and crookedly. He had pointedly said to Elia repeatedly over the evening, “My son fucks like a true dragon,” looking at a downcast Rhaella, side-eyed. He had demanded that she reveal her throat to him, and chuckled with mirth when she did. “Maybe, I could borrow her for a night, Rhaegar, though I have given up other women for my bitch queen. She has a beautiful neck.” She had flinched when he touched her neck with his nails. 

He knocked on Elia’s chambers and she opened them in a high-necked gown of scarlet. The Westorosi gown fit her ill and he almost groaned at how poor and sickly she looked.

“Elia,” he cooed. He closed the doors behind him. “Mother called us to meet her.”  
She nodded and he took her hands in his, “Mother complained to me after supper that you have never spoken to her. Why is that so? Did I not ask you to on our wedding night?”

Elia chewed on her lip. Avoiding Rhaella had been more of selfishness on her part. She had enough misery to feed on, and Rhaella was quiet, walking grief itself, regal and composed. Swallowing everything thrown at her without a word – the pain, the humiliation, the stares and pity. She feared she would become like her.

“Apologies, your Grace.” Rhaegar stilled at his title.  
Elia breathed deeply, “Since I have to say it in front of your father, I must say it all the time, so my tongue does not slip, and as he threatens, my head does not end up on a spike.” 

He closed his eyes and pulled her close. They held each other for a few moments. His hands, and his whole body were ice cold. “My father will not be king for long.” he whispered softly in her ear. He pressed a cold kiss to the side of her neck, and the cold spread its tentacles to her heart.

Then they finally walked, hand in hand to the Queen’s chambers.  
Rhaella’s screams and the Mad King’s joyous laughter echoed from the chamber, making Elia’s stomach churn. Only in the afternoon, had she discovered that she was beset with runny guts. She spent most of them time after supper in the privy, doubled over with pain. She stopped walking and caught her breath at the sharp pain in her stomach.

The screams were rhythmic, hinting at what was happening inside. An audible slap was heard and the Mad King cried, “Stop that howling, bitch-whore.” Her screams stopped after, and the king’s animal grunts followed. Rhaegar stood in front of the doors as if in a trance. Then his hand tightened painfully around her wrist, fingers cold pincers. “Let us go,” he whispered, “Now is not the time”.

Elia’s eyes turned to Arthur, who stood expressionless by the door, “Are you not supposed to protect the queen too?” she hissed at him.

Arthur replied in a low voice, “Yes, but not from the king.” He let his gaze slide to Rhaegar as the King laughed again from within and Rhaella screamed, followed by a brutal slap. 

Rhaegar’s eyes blazed dangerously at the insinuation. He stalked away, his back straight and head pushed forward, and Elia had no choice but to follow.


	12. Rekindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2

Elia sat hunched over in the privy. Her stomach seemed to hold impossible quantities of fluid, though she had eaten near nothing for the past day and half. Ignoring the burning in her arse, and the pain in her gut, she willed herself to get up, wash herself and move to her chamber.

She sprawled on the bed, lonely and morose. All she had were the two ladies in waiting and Freya, with Ashara, Rhaegar and Arthur avoiding her. Rhaegar wasn’t purposefully eluding her, having his hands full of matters of the realm, subverting his father’s bird-brained plans, and no doubt, plotting against him. Only yesterday, the Mad King had suggested that they move the capital to the more olfactorily pleasant Dragonstone. It had taken an hour and half of pleading and cooing to him by Rhaegar and Connington to change his mind. 

Sometimes, she strode by his chamber just to listen to his high, beautiful voice filtering through the walls. Elia had always found Westerosi songs to be mostly composed in only two scales – one happy and one sad. But there was one particular song he sang that stirred something primal in her, the tune and beat his harp plucked with it was not in a Westerosi scale, and he sang the words so softly, she could not hear.

Few people knew Elia herself played the bamboo flute. She had learnt them from a Rhoynar court musician residing in Dorne since she began to walk. The people of Essos had seventy-two scales with all the seven musical notes in them and hundreds of lesser ones with combinations of these main scales. A scale in their music was called a raag – a colour. The Rhoynish music flowed like a river, the secret to their music was in the oscillations and nuances between the notes, lending it an often heart-rending quality, while Westerosi music was only notes sung plain, making it sound oft childish to her. 

She looked at her selection of flutes and pulled out the large, dark one, low of pitch and husky of tone. Rhoynish music was often elaborations of a raag – pure music, based on the creativity of the musician.  
Then she slowly began to think about Rhaegar’s song, and what scale it was in. She played the raags she found most sorrowful and heart-rending, yet nothing fit. She felt as though, she had forgotten his tune. 

Ashara stepped in, closing the doors behind her. Elia paused, taking the flute off her mouth. She stood shyly, her violet eyes wide and face pale, “May I listen?” she asked in a sad voice.

She crawled within the blankets. “What is the matter?” Elia asked, concerned.  
“I miss home,” Ashara said softly.  
“But I thought you hated it.”  
“I still miss it, and you won’t talk to me.”  
Elia smiled and kissed her forehead. “Of course I will now, my sweet.” Ashara smiled up at her and then closed her eyes.  
“Play my favourite,” Ashara commanded.

Elia slipped into the simple five-note scale, and the sound was beautiful and mournful, relishing its compassion and sadness. It turned happy, and then stole it away from the listener, dipping into a grieving note, and Ashara sighed. Soon, Ashara’s cheeks were wet with tears. She saw Palestone Sword Tower in her mind’s eye, with the rocks crashing against the shore. 

Elia realized mid-way that this was the raag of Rhaegar’s song. 

\--------

Rhaegar appeared to be missing from the Keep, so Elia sought Barristan Selmy in the White Sword Tower with Ashara.

Selmy sighed, “He rode to Summerhall.”  
“But Ser, is that not a ruin after the tragedy?” Elia asked.  
Arthur strode in, “I heard voices-“ he broke off, seeing Elia in her sheer red damask, and golden jewellery. 

“Sit Arthur,” Ashara said, glancing at Elia’s dazed smile queerly.  
“He goes there with only his harp,” Selmy said, “He refuses to let us go with him. We stay here like cravens, hiding from the king.”  
“What does he do there? Why does he go there alone?” Ashara pressed.  
Arthur replied, his eyes only for Elia, “He often needs some peace, time for himself, to escape the confines of the keep, and its politics. He calls it ‘clean, fresh air’.”  
“Does he sing there?” Elia asked enthused, her eyes wide.  
“Aye, to the stars,” Arthur murmured.

Elia could not imagine a more compelling image. Rhaegar in the sad ruins of Summerhall, plucking his harp and singing that haunting song to the stars above him.

“He went yesterday evening, he should be back by afternoon,” Selmy added, returning her to the present. Ashara smiled at him, and he blinked his eyes slowly like a drunk. 

Rhaegar was back in the afternoon and went to the yard to spar with the brash, red-headed Jon Connington. She sat on the sides to watch them, Ashara having claimed the need for a midday nap after an intense morning of cyvasse championship between the four ladies from Dorne. Her runny guts were gone by the morning, having drunk Pycelle’s potions due to Ashara’s insistence that they call a maester. Ashara’s gloating from the shared occurrence of her victory in the tournament and her successful recommendation of the maester had been near unbearable in the morning. 

Cersei Lannister settled next to her, and she bit back laughter at the excessiveness of dignity and pride in one so young. It was an unusually hot day, exacerbated by the fact that there were too few trees in the Keep and its dusty nature. Cersei was dressed in a revealing gown of green which exposed the tops of her milk-white breasts. Elia who had little breast to expose still wore her sheer red damask for the heat, not having bothered to cover her neck for once.

“Greetings, your Grace.” The last two words were spat out as if they took something from deep within her and threw it away.  
“Cersei, how are you?” She was only a child to her, barely fifteen, reminding her of the golden haired Tyene who she missed greatly.  
She could feel the heat of Cersei’s gaze on her neck. “Well, your Grace. What happened to your neck?” she asked, her voice high and childish.  
Elia fumbled for an explanation, and inclined her head to Rhaegar. Cersei’s brows furrowed and she felt a stab of pity for the young one.

“Would you like to play cyvasse with us tomorrow?” she asked her.  
“No, I must attend to the queen,” Cersei replied self-importantly.  
“With us, you may have a better chance of seeing Prince Rhaegar.”  
“There will be no need for that. Do you still call him by his title? Rhaegar suggests I call him by name.”  
Elia winced, “A word of benevolent advice, do not call him by name in front of King Aerys.” Cersei shuddered at the mention of the Mad King, and the subject was dropped.

Jaime Lannister was in a corner of the yard, his eternal smug smile plastered on his face, as he parried Myles Mooton’s hasty swipes, biding his time like a lion waiting to pounce.  
“We must have tourneys for cyvasse like jousts,” Elia said, trying to make light conversation, but her breath caught in her throat, when she saw Arthur step into the yard and watch Lywin and Rhaegar spar. “Then women could compete, and we could see who will win the battle of brains.”  
Cersei huffed, “A tourney of cyvasse, what a silly notion. The spectators would die of boredom.”

Elia chose to ignore the petty swipe, concentrating on the preferable sight of Arthur warming up, swinging his arms on both sides. He looked up at her, and her heart stopped. Connington stepped aside laughing at something, hitting a solemn Rhaegar on the back and Arthur stepped in front of Rhaegar.

Elia could immediately see that something was wrong- there was no laughter or camaraderie between the old friends, and Selmy looked concerned. Arthur glanced up at Elia again, and this time Rhaegar caught him in the act. Rhaegar removed his leathers and tunic, exposing his bare-back and chest. Cersei straightened, her eyes widening, and Whent whistled. 

Arthur kept his shirt on, but Elia couldn’t help but notice how the sweaty tunic stuck to his powerful muscles as he held his sword ready in hand for Rhaegar’s attack, his stern face calm and composed. She knew in that moment that he was fighting for her honour and for – love. 

Connington’s voice boomed, voice heavy with concern, “Your Grace, you must wear your leathers.” But Rhaegar ignored him, and Elia saw the madness in his eyes. Arthur had woken the dragon. If Rhaegar fought for anybody, it was for himself and his prophecy.

Rhaegar struck out at Arthur, swift and deadly, though they were only using the flats and not the sides, Elia was suddenly scared. Cersei was wholly pre-occupied with Rhaegar’s bare torso, watching his powerful movements with glee. They are trying to kill each other, you fool, she thought. 

“Connington, stop them!” she shouted. He looked at her with a heavy, distasteful expression and shook his head, “This is all your doing.” Why does he hate me so? Cersei shouted back, “No, I want to watch!”

Jaime and Mooton had paused to watch the fight, as Rhaegar and Arthur circled each other like a pair of stags.  
Rhaegar struck out at Arthur and he parried the shots with difficulty, on the defensive. No you oaf, he will never get tired, Elia thought, wishing she was the one bearing the sword. Rhaegar struck at Arthur’s shoulder hard with his blade and Arthur grunted in pain. Arthur didn’t even seem to try to fight the prince. He is scared of hurting him, she realized. 

“Fight,” Rhaegar commanded, “Fight like a knight, Ser Dayne.”  
So Arthur responded with his own cuts, each heavy and stupendous, but Rhaegar was fast and Arthur was still apprehensive of hurting the Prince. He is scared of himself. She could see it in the way he hesitated, the way he feared he could turn Princeslayer if he fought Rhaegar into a blood-fury. Finally Rhaegar parried Arthur’s blunted blade away, and he fell to the ground. Rhaegar made a disgusted noise and stalked away. 

Connington walked up to her, “He’s been so ever since he married you, frustrated and disappointed,” he said, bitingly, as Cersei gloated.

Elia nodded calmly and remarked, “The mysterious workings of the mind of the Dragon Prince.” Connington’s glare deepened. She got up, to move away from his gaze and began to move to ask if Arthur was alright, and perhaps kiss him for being such a just, brave fool, when Arthur seemed to realize what she was thinking and gently shook his head.

\-------

Arthur sook Rhaegar out in his chambers as he was removing his boots.  
He paused hesitantly at the door, “Your Grace?”  
Rhaegar turned to look at him, his eyebrow arched, eyes turned side-ways. Arthur was struck by how kingly he looked, even when bare-chested and coated in dust, sweat and grime. Bulky muscles coated his chest, back and arms, but he possessed a lithe form reminiscent of his skinny childhood. He looked strikingly like young Aerys, and Arthur feared his friend was also becoming him in character. 

“May I speak to you alone?” he asked seriously. Rhaegar dismissed his servants and lay on the bed, arms crossed behind his head.  
“Sit, Ser Dayne,” he commanded. Arthur realized he could not know for sure if he was teasing or in earnest.  
Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, “I apologize for my behavior toward you these past few days. However, I think you are mistaken. I do not - desire Elia,” his voice sounded empty of emotion, flat, distant.

Rhaegar smiled, his eyes half-closed, “Arthur, the moment I discover any unsavory relations between you and my wife, your heads will be on spikes hoisted on the walls of the Red Keep.”  
Arthur stilled at the threat, “Perhaps such a scenario can be avoided if you treat my cousin with kindness.”  
“You believe I mistreat her?”  
“She was screaming and hurt, that night. Are you going mad like the King?” he whispered the last sentence.  
“Do not presume to intervene in my personal affairs!” Rhaegar spat, sitting up, his eyes blazing. “I believe it was men like you that drove my father mad.”  
Arthur waited for the prince to calm, but he did not, “Did you hear her call out your name, Arthur?” he said, his voice smooth and dangerous.  
“She was hurt, pleading for help.”  
“She was in the peak of her pleasure.”  
Arthur looked at Rhaegar in earnest, “We were childhood friends, cousins. I told her clearly that I have no- feelings for her. Only brotherly love.”  
Rhaegar looked at him coolly. “I know it is not your fault Arthur. I’ve known you since I was a man grown, you are honest, just and upright, and never waver from duty. Maybe that stirs the sensuous viper to lure you and inflame me at the same time.”  
Arthur shook his head, shocked, “Elia is gentle and would never mean harm. She was calling me for help. It was her first time - it must have hurt her.”  
Rhaegar nodded, whispering, “That is possible.”

Arthur stood up, glad in his heart that matters were better between them, though not entirely settled. Their comradeship would heal. Rhaegar merely nodded his farewell, and Arthur left, after declining his head.


	13. Red Damask Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody number 2.  
> Because slow is the way to kill it.

Elia slipped back to her chamber and looked out of the window at the White Sword Tower wistfully. She remembered Arthur sleeping on his bed, and his serene face, and Whent telling him his cock was straining in his breeches. It was a hot day, and the red silk damask gown felt soft and sensuous on her. She latched the door and lay on the bed, imagining Arthur’s cock against her thigh – large, hard, pink with arousal. His rough hands would reach up her thighs, under the gown and touch her secret place. Unbidden, thoughts of Rhaegar’s obscenely muscled, lithe torso came to her mind as it swiveled with his sword and she swiveled her fingers against that place, sighing. Rhaegar playing his harp with his long, graceful fingers- he would pluck her like his harp – her mouth played an imaginary flute as she plucked her nub. She pulled her gown back down, suddenly ashamed and ridiculous at what she was doing. But, then, sighing, she slipped her hands in her smallclothes again and slid it up and down between her lips, wanting to give her body to Rhaegar for him to plunder – no Arthur-

\- There was a knock on the door. Elia swallowed thickly before opening it, wiping scented herbs on her hand. Queen Rhaella stood outside with Cersei, and the sight made her want to scream in frustration.

“Your Grace,” she bowed instead, letting them into the chamber and pulling out chairs for them at the table.  
“How long does it take you to open your door?” Rhaella questioned, settling down. “I have asked Rhaegar to visit your chamber after this, you have barely met each other since that night.”  
“I am sorry, your Grace,” she looked down meekly at the table and then pulled bread, fruit and honey toward her, “Do you want anything to eat, your Grace? Cersei?”  
Cersei shook her head, surveying the room, newly full of trinkets and memoranda from Dorne, with distaste. 

Rhaella chided her again, “Yes, pass me that milk. You must get servants to serve such things. Where are your servants? You are too lenient with them. If you cannot manage servants, I do not know how you can manage the Keep, when your husband runs the affairs of the realm. Doubtless, you will be a headache to Rhaegar.” Cersei smiled in glee in response.

Rhaella fixed her eyes on her, continuing her rant, and the bruises from that night suddenly became visible on her, when the clouds parted to reveal more sun. “I have been asking you to meet me for so long, and now I have sought you out like a servant. Are you happy? Is this how you defy your queen and good-mother? I do not think you please Rhaegar either, for he would have visited your chamber more if not.” She looked at her up and down and shook her head, “If you dress so, you cannot expect the King to call you anything but a Dornish whore.”  
Elia bristled, her thin voice bursting with rage, “It is a Dornish gown and you dare not call me that.”  
Rhaella glared at her, the heat of her stare unsettlingly like Rhaegar’s.  
Cersei piped up, “I agree with the Queen, your dress is very revealing and inappropriate.”  
“It is hot, and your gown is not a septa’s either.”  
Cersei’s eyes filled with tears. This girl should be a mummer.  
“Dear, dear,” Rhaella stroked Cersei’s back, “She is my lady-in-waiting. Apologise.”  
“Sorry,” Elia said, crossing her fingers under the table out of habit. She watched curiously as Rhaella layered a slice of bread with fruit, pouring a liberal quantity of honey on it. She piled another slice of bread on it. She cut the filled bread with a butter knife into four neat pieces and poured milk over the whole thing. Then she began to eat, slowly savoring the little meal.

Elia almost smiled at this display of humanness. Elia saw a battered queen, taking pleasure in the small things of life desperately, scrabbling for hope. Someday, maybe, she would become that.  
Rhaella looked at Elia, her gaze turning softer. “I have a favour to ask of you. I have seen you with Oberyn’s child and know you are good with children. His Grace never lets me near Viserys, and my son is lonely, alone with his guards all day. I fear for his mind,” she paused, wiping some milk off her chin daintily with her hand-cloth.  
“Do you want me to get him companions from Dorne?”  
“No, his Grace would never allow that. He often says no child can be Viserys’ equal. Rhaegar has scarce time to see his little brother, but you,” she hesitated, “You can be with him and make sure he is- alright?”  
Elia smiled and then sobered, remembering him calling her “Dornish whore!” and his laughter when his Aerys threw the soup bowl on his mother.  
“I would ask Cersei to do it, but even mention of her lord Father upsets his Grace. Would you do this for me, Elia?” the queen asked again, her voice breaking with pleading and hope.  
“Of course, my Queen,” Elia said, taking her hand, “I will take care of the boy.”  
“Also,” Rhaella unwrapped the package in her lap, “Give him these sweetmeats. His Grace has commanded to feed him only with barley, oats and fruit, so he may grow strong, not soft, but he is only a boy and he loves these.”  
Elia took the package, saying, “I will your Grace, I promise to see to it that your son is well and has good company.” Rhaella’s smile filled the whole chamber with its brightness.

There was a brief, companiable silence as Elia drank some milk and Rhaella ate. Cersei fiddled with her skirt.  
“Viserys was a terror as a child,” she laughed her eyes distant, “he still is. But Rhaegar,” she sighed, “he was so quiet and slept all the time. Sometimes, we even forgot there was a child in the nursery!” Elia smiled enthused, humming in response. Rhaella began telling her of a childhood incident when Viserys cried all night after first seeing Ser Lewyn’s mustache – “It was the first time he had seen someone with a mustache, his Grace still shaved then, and your Uncle’s mustache sat rather ill on his face,” Elia laughed uncontrollably at that, when -  
\- there was a brisk knock on the door.

“That will be Rhaegar,” Rhaella added, standing. Cersei rushed to open the door and he stepped in wearing a red doublet, receiving a strikingly beautiful smile from her.  
Rhaella quickly put her mouth to Elia’s ear, “Make a son with love, not lust,” she advised before moving to leave.

Rhaegar looked at them, amused, grabbing an a piece of dried pork from the table. “What secrets do you two have already?”  
His mother only said, “Cersei, come let us go,” at the poor girl who looked at him hunched on the chair as though he was a god, and left with a weak, hopeful smile at him.

Elia sat on her bed, dignified, as a nerve-wracking silence stretched between them. She watched Rhaegar eat his meat with his sharp teeth, hair still wet from a bath, strands clinging to his face and neck, droplets of water dripping on his doublet. His eyes stared at the round, pretty pebbles she and Ashara had collected from Saltshore on her bed-side table, took in the sea-shell wind-chime, a doll, now rather ugly, but one she was close to and various other toys she had played with since a child.

“You must not be angry with Arthur, your Grace,” she began, and Rhaegar’s eyes flicked to hers, “He has done nothing wrong.”  
Rhaegar leaned back, “Be honest with me. What is it between the both of you?”  
She was honest, “There is no desire, only an – affection since childhood.”  
“Would you call it love?”

She paused, thinking and licking her lips, and looked at her hands folded on her lap, “I do not know,” she whispered, barely audible, looking up to see the strange gleam in his eyes, “There is nothing for you to be jealous about.”  
Rhaegar sighed, standing and slipping out of his doublet, “I am not jealous. I feel like an – intruder. And that is worse.”  
Elia looked at him quizzically. “I feel like I am standing between lovers. Arthur is the brave knight, you the fair, apologies, dark maiden and me, the monster- the dragon. To be slain by the brave knight.” He smirked in black humour. 

“You read too much,” Elia walked up to him and stroked the side of his chiseled face, “Doran never let us read or hear tales from when we were young and impressionable, so Oby and I did not fill our heads with silly notions of love, fair maidens and knights,” a bone strained against her fragile throat and he felt himself harden. She walked to the window and looked at the White Sword Tower. “Anyway, we are married now. I thought upon what you said last time. We must find companionship, even if there is no love.”

“And lust,” he whispered to himself. Her sheer red damask silk gown enveloped her body beautifully, showing its frailty and sensuality. He licked his lips slowly, looking at the gold belt around her narrow waist, broadening into that ample arse that strained against the silks.

“Elia,” he said softly. She turned as he took off his tunic revealing his pale torso, scarred slightly with fading scars and a few new, purple bruises from Arthur's heavy blows that matched his eyes. 

He finished the last bites of his strip of pork, showing her his sharp dragon teeth that had drawn blood from her neck. His face seemed eerie and Other-like in the dimming evening light, as his milk-white skin gleamed in the dark, his alien features came alive, and his eyes gleamed like a predator. She felt a stab of fear when he took her gown in one hand and ripped it with a loud noise, his fingers bleeding from the action. She let out a cry and tried to cover her small breasts, exposed by the gown ripped to her belt. He ignored her, ripping the gown below her belt to shreds with his dagger, exposing her legs and small-clothes, and she unthinkingly slipped out of them, her body responding to a primal need. 

He kissed her, nibbling at her upper lip, and she felt nauseous when she tasted the pork on his lips, since she detested meat. He turned her around and nudged her gently, so she crawled on the bed on all fours, arching her back to him as he gazed at the dark, sinful lips nestled between her thighs. Elia bit her lip in anticipation as his long, wet hair touched her back. He gripped her with a slap and slipped into her painfully tight, hot cunt with a groan.

He speared her, heavy, ponderous. He dove in fast, urgent, and emerged slower, more reluctant. He gripped her soft belly, slightly drooping, with his cold fingers, harsh and biting, and Elia arched her back till it hurt. He reveled in the feel of her slick essence and the soft rhythmic squishing of his cock in her essences that accompanied her low, husky moans in a sweet harmony. 

She bit her lip so hard it bled, when Rhaegar lifted her leg to stab deeper, stroking insistently and without mercy. She screamed and gasped as he bit the back of her neck savagely and drew her whole body against his in the final death strokes. He pulled her by her hair, now messy and undone, and bit her neck hard, tasting the blood on it as he released his seed in her in continuous explosions that filled her, hot and wanting. The dragon drew her heat from her, and then her life, and finally her soul. “Oh Gods, Rhaegar, Oh Gods,” she gasped, as he slipped out of her, panting. 

They lay next to each other close, his arm around her, the other arm taking off her belt. She rose and he slipped it out, throwing it away violently. He touched the maroon marks left on her soft, dark flesh by the belt lightly. Elia, leaned on his chest, feeling the coarse, white hair, wishing it was raven, and felt a stab of guilt that drove into her heart and twisted. She looked up into his eyes and saw the victory in them. 

“It is cold,” he said, drawing up the blankets around them. He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dark and pulled her impossibly close.

Why would he not be glad? She would be the body that bore him his prophecy and he would savour all the parts of her he liked, whenever he could, like his favourite strips of pork. Yet, she had fucked him and even enjoyed it, and he had planted his seed, when she only bore true love for Arthur. He must not be fooled into thinking she loved him, must not be lulled into thinking that she would be his unquestioning, submissive wife who gave her flesh and gasped his name whenever he lulled her by cooing her name in his high, sweet voice. She was a Martell of Dorne. The dragon may maul and roar, but the viper sunk its fangs soundlessly.

He slipped his other hand onto her arse and gently touched her place between the lips. She gently moaned “Arthur,” as if dazed, into his chest so only he could hear. He stilled and withdrew his hand, but held her, as she uneasily drifted asleep. 

He looked down at her beautiful, blood-stained neck as it strained when she adjusted her head against his chest, wanting to put a red smile on it with his dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by actual mother-in-law experience


	14. Pain and Discomfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shostakovich's violin concerto number 1.  
> When you understand nothing and you hurt all over...

When Rhaegar woke in the morning, Elia’s body was unbearably hot. I haven’t stolen her fire, he thought dazedly, she only burns hotter and hotter. Then he opened his eyes proper and touched her back and arms and neck, finding them blazing hot.

“Elia?” he called her, she opened her burning eyes. “You are feverish.” His arm, on her was cold as corpse.

I forgot to take my potion the previous night, she realized with a terrible shock. Sure enough, a pain began in her gut and twisted in her intestines unbearably. She quickly climbed out of bed and slipped into a gown, rushing to the privy, as Rhaegar stared after her, puzzled.

\--------

“Ashara!” she yelled to the mute form that lay curled on her bed, “You must wash after yourself when you leave the privy!”  
Two red-rimmed eyes looked at her, “I could not. I had to get up and run before I started to shit blood.”  
Elia sat next to her and sighed, running her hands through Ashara’s hair. She was used to pain and sickness, but Ashara rarely fell ill. “Still, you must wash after. I had to do it myself now.” She had her own privy now that she was princess, “Even the servants will be too disgusted to do such a thing. They are only people after all.”  
“Sorry,” she said in a small voice.  
“What did you eat yesterday?”  
“I had bread and fruit in the morning with sweet rose water. Roast veal and strawberry cake in the afternoon and more strawberry cake at night,” she sniffed.  
“Nothing else?” Elia asked, wondering if it was the bread.  
“A glass of milk.” Elia was also habituated to a tumbler of milk everyday, so she suspected it was the milk. 

Rhaegar knocked and stepped into her chambers, as the doors were open. Ashara rose hastily.  
“Lady Dayne, please rest. Elia, how do you feel?”  
She sighed and rubbed her belly, “Like someone is broiling my stomach,” she grimaced, as Rhaegar languidly settled in a chair, Whent clumsily closing the doors on them.  
Elia stroked Ashara’s hair as he began to speak. “Father has plans for sewers for King’s Landing. I must travel the realm to compel the various lords to pay their due taxes for the expense.”  
“Only three weeks ago, his Grace commanded there would be no taxes.” Elia remarked, confused.  
“Yes, but my father has changed his mind. On the way I may look into the dispute between Blackwood and Bracken and also visit the Wall.”  
“The Wall?” Elia choked and cut to the meat of the matter, “How long will you be gone?”  
“At most a half year,” and then added, “Arthur will come with me.”  
“Doubtless.” They looked at each for a few moments and he nodded. “We leave early on the morrow, you may come and wish us farewell.”

He opened the door, and she caught sight of Jon Connington, Whent and Arthur. Whent was leaning against the wall, wiping the sweat off his brow. Arthur looked distinctly uncomfortable.  
Jon began, “Ah Rhaegar, I have a matter to discuss with you. Lord Bracken-“  
“Whent are you unwell?” Elia asked.  
Whent shifted, “A burn in my arse-“.  
“Runny guts?” she cut him off before he could use more colourful expressions to describe his illness, and Rhaegar shifted, looking away, as Jon wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
“Aye,” Whent said grinning despite the pain. “You too?” she asked Arthur, and he dropped his head in embarrassment.  
“Pycelle has some good potion for it. Did you drink any milk? In the past few days?”  
“Rhaegar, I never knew Princess Elia was trained as a Maester-“  
“Shut your gaping hole Connington. Answer my question.”  
Whent thought for a while, a finger tapping his chin and nodded, and Arthur too said “Yes.”  
She turned to Rhaegar, “Your Grace, do you drink milk?”  
“Not for some years,” his eyes widened in realization. “Connington, attend to this immediately. We cannot have the whole Keep collapsing with illness. Are you with the same illness, Elia? Why does the potion not work on you?”  
“Because I forgot to take it last night.” They looked away from each other.  
“Your grace, you have queer tastes,” Whent began and Elia winced, wanting to shut her ears, “Runny shit during love-making puts most men off.” Ashara laughed weakly from inside the room.  
Elia buried her face in her hands.  
Connington opened his mouth as if to speak and Elia said, “I will see to it myself,” she looked pointedly at Connington, “despite being sick.”  
Rhaegar glared at him and he nodded, spitting out the words, “I will take care of it.”  
“Do not tell the king if there is any wrongdoing by the milkmaids. We do not want any more burnings,” she warned.  
Connington rolled his eyes, “Yes your Grace.” She felt a reciprocation of his petty hatred rise in her chest.

\----------

The next morning, Rhaegar sat on his white destrier, regal and unapproachable. She bid Arthur farewell with teary eyes, slipping him one of the pebbles from Saltshore for keepsake. 

“It is the colour of your eyes,” she whispered.  
“No, it is the colour of Rhaegar’s,” Arthur whispered back, bitterly amused. It was true, the stone was near indigo.  
She replied, desperate, “But I thought of you when I picked it, so you must think of me when you look at it.” He nodded briefly, and turned his horse.

Cersei Lannister was already wishing Rhaegar farewell, giving him a cloth she had stitched for keepsake, tears in her eyes. She was sure the girl would leave for Casterly Rock now that Rhaegar was leaving, while Jaime was squiring for Arthur. It must break her heart to leave her dream prince and twin, Elia thought sadly. Rhaegar handed the cloth to Myles when Cersei stepped back as Elia headed to him, gulping her apprehension.

“I see you went to wish Arthur before me,” he remarked softly on seeing her.  
“He is my childhood friend. I would wish Ashara or Oberyn first too if they travelled with you.”  
“As wife, your first duty must be to your husband,” she shifted, uncomfortable. He looked at the sky, “Though I know I can never bring that smile on your face – the silly one you get when you are with them,” he smiled at her.  
“You will never,” she remarked, smiling.  
“Though I do like it. For appearance’s sake,” he said, bowing down, as she tiptoed to kiss him. He pulled at her lower lip, as he had done at their wedding dance. She could feel Cersei’s gaze piercing her.  
“Would you rejoice if I died in this journey? Mayhaps, by raiders or the cold?” he tried to sound offhand, but she could see that he was in earnest.  
“No, your grace,” she stroked his horse’s mane, and wiped his pale lips with two fingers, “That is to take away the bad luck from what you said. You must always think good thoughts before you begin a journey. That is what Doran taught me.”  
Rhaegar inclined his head, “He has taught you well.”  
He gave her a final, meaningful glance before turning away and riding to Arthur.


	15. Daring to Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QuDEx3_Ygo  
> A different sort of classical this time - bamboo flute

6 months later,

When news reached him that Elia was with child, Rhaegar made haste in his duties, riding back in nine moons. He compelled her to stay in his chambers, eternally surrounded by a retinue of servants with constant commands: “You are sick, and I will not have you in danger when you are alone,” and “Do not walk too much and tire yourself.” She could comprehend his fear as he had witnessed Rhaella’s brutal miscarriages since a young age. So, she was to always be with someone, with a servant even standing outside when she used the privy, as she alternated between his chambers and solar. The Queen would often sit with her, giving her advice, making sure to keep the king away from her, and taking excessive care of her health. After letters complaining of her loneliness, Doran had sent missives around, and a dozen ladies-in-waiting had arrived for her. Though they were cheerful and well-meaning, she grew sick of their constant company, yet loneliness, as Ashara had left a week before, missing home and disgusted with Elia’s lack of freedom. 

When Arthur had seen her the first time, a sad smile had tugged his lips, for when his eyes rested on her swollen belly, he knew she was gone to him forever.

But, all was not morose. Her endeavors with Viserys were proving successful. With constant beatings and scolding, (for there was a Rhoynish saying, “A child’s greatest boon is a well-intentioned beating,”) yet company and care, Viserys looked to her as someone to be feared but not hated. He had stopped torturing that kitten she had found bruised near his room after numerous punishments and had started to act more like a prince, as she slowly but harshly taught him right from wrong, and his letters of course. Her crowning glory was when Ser Barristan had acknowledged her hard-work, “You do well with the prince, your grace.” Even Aerys had enough sense in his mad self to see that Elia was a good influence on his son. 

Bored out of her mind, scared that Viserys would revert to his old ways, now that Rhaegar restricted her access to him, (“He kicks and punches at you!” he had said, shocked), she often played the flute to herself, seated by the window, hoping the baby would hear the melodious sounds. The best moment of each day was when Elia had just packed her flute and Rhaegar would come in, tired from the yard and weary from the duties, sometimes fresh from a bath. He would sit by her on the bed and hold her belly like a fragile thing, pressing a kiss onto it. He would murmur sweet, loving nothings to the baby, that were often quite absurd coming from his lips. Sometimes, he would lift her gown and gaze at her belly and then kiss the bare skin. On rare occasions, he would peck her once on the lips, and she would be left confused at the strange loving feelings that rose in her chest.

To Rhaegar, the Elia had changed into someone unrecognizably soft and loving, who no longer spat venom and silently sunk her fangs at him. Yet, he could not believe how such a fragile frame could support such a frighteningly large belly and constantly feared for her. Every time she coughed, he thought he might die of anxiety. 

They became mellowed by the presence of this new life growing in her belly. They put aside their pride and petty angers and loved the unborn baby in her body. They were united by their shared blood flowing through the baby’s veins.

And yet when Rhaegar came back from the Wall, and rode to Summerhall within a week with his harp, Elia felt she did not know him at all.  
When Rhaegar came in that day, Elia picked up her flute rather than set it aside.  
Rhaegar lay on the bed, mildly puzzled at the change in routine. She sat on the chair and played Ashara’s favourite five note raga elaborately. The tune lilted and flowed like the Rhoyne, dipping soft and low, high and loud as she wished, making sweet, heart-rending sounds to her ear. He found her flute alien and enchanting, but incomprehensible, sometimes cacophonic and absurd even, like someone crying.  
After a while, she slyly added a phrase from Rhaegar’s song in the middle of the eastern melody, and he turned to his head to her sharply. She looked into his eyes, seeing something lovely in his confusion. She played his song, slow and plaintive. He closed his eyes and leaned back.

“I heard you sing it, faintly, in your room. It is an eastern scale. The first three notes of the minor scale, the fifth note and the sixth note of the major scale,” she explained after pausing and waiting for an unforthcoming reply. “Will you sing that song?”

Rhaegar nodded and at his request, Elia climbed on the bed to lie in front of him. He wrapped his arm around her belly, and she rested hers on his, as he began to sing.  
“High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts...”  
By the time the song was finished, his sweet voice ending with a breath and a swallow against her ear, her face was drenched with tears. His eyes were full of an unspeakable, alien sadness when he kneeled in front of the bed and drew back her gown, pressing a soft, short kiss to the bare skin of her belly, then another deep, wet one and whispered, “It is your song, my sweet.”

“Were you not born at Summerhall?” she asked, and he looked up at her, irritated at the interruption. “Salt and smoke,” she breathed, tracing the line of his strong nose. He closed his eyes, still silent. 

She felt like a fool, babbling to try and make a conversation, scrabbling for his attention. On his journey, a final spurt of growth had taken hold of him- his chest grew broader, needing larger doublets, and his voice had deepened. An assassination attempt on the Mad King had rendered him impossibly paranoid, keeping him to his chambers for the past five moons, leaving Rhaegar to hold the troubled realm together and preside over court in the Throne Room, his judgements sensible, measured, his commanding tones inspiring awe and fear. 

She leaned and whispered into his ear, “Did you manage to rally support for your cause on the journey, your grace?”  
“Do not concern yourself of such matters or speak of it outside.”  
“Of course,” she replied, disappointed.  
“Will you sing something else for me?” she pleaded, wanting to hear his voice, sounding lonely and desperate, and he ignored her, moving to lie on the other side of the bed. 

The child in her belly had changed her, made her desperate for his affection. She had become one of the many scorned admirers of Rhaegar that constantly flocked him, admiring his visage, his long, beautiful hair, his strength, grace, wit, courage and loveliness. She had become like all the other men and women in the realm, either ripped apart by their desire for him or torn to shreds by hatred and jealousy toward him. 

She climbed away from the bed, and took her flute to ease the wounds of her heart. From the chair by the window, she admired his tall, strong body sleeping in the dimming fire from the hearth, the long gleaming hair she wanted to kiss splayed about him. Even in sleep, there was a tragic beauty about him.

She played the sad five-note scale. She would love Rhaegar, painful as it might be, for she had no choice. They were joined forever by the shared blood in her belly. She dared to hope he would love her back.  
For, Elia did not want a life without love.

She played for a long while, holding her belly protectively, until Rhaegar had fallen asleep. She lit a candle and pulled out some parchment and ink. Lonely, and strangely aggrieved, she wrote long, lengthy letters to Sunspear – Oberyn and Doran, Idris and Mellario, Nym, Ty and Oba, and finally little Arianne had several lines devoted to them; then Ashara in Starfall; one for Arthur to be sent to the White Sword Tower for they were so close, yet so far away; and finally one for Rhaegar. It was dawn by the time she was finished and she had depleted half of the parchment Rhaegar kept. She left the letter for Rhaegar on the table and left to find Maester Pycelle for the letters and then the Sept to keep her sister in grief – Rhaella - company.

\---------

Rhaegar woke up to a candle fully burnt on the table, now a waxy puddle, and sheet of parchment next to it. 

Your Grace,  
The child in my belly has changed me. I am no longer the woman I was. When you were away, there was not a day when I did not pray for your safe return, and I have grown to love your mother like my own. I glory in the pride that you shoulder the affairs of the realm, brave and strong, clever and just. I know that every lady in the realm desires you and every lord respects you.  
I could not tell you these things in person, for you do not seem to have the time or patience to hear my thoughts.  
I love you. I only ask that you love me back.  
Elia.

He crumpled the parchment in his fist, wanting to forget her ink and tears. A servant knocked on the door, and brought in his change of clothes.

He never felt anything to her even akin to love, no matter how much he tried. He had only felt companionship and lust, and now, a strange wonder for bearing his child. He opened her dresser and threw the letter inside, hoping, yet not hoping she would see his response.

\-------

Arthur came to escort her from the Sept, where she prayed with Rhaella. Of late, she prayed excessively, for the child in her belly to be well, for Rhaegar, for Rhaella, for Viserys, for Arthur and Ashara, and her family.  
“What is the matter?” she asked Arthur.  
“The Prince called for you.” A thrill went through her.  
“Did you receive my letter?”  
“Were you drunk when you wrote it?”  
“A little.” He chuckled and she smiled, already feeling the troubled thoughts of last night fading. He held out his arm and she took it. Maybe, he saw the sorrow in her heart.  
“Rhae-his Grace, is he always this distant?”  
“He has always kept to himself. Perhaps, even I only know the man he wants to show the world. But do not think ill of him for it,” he added. She nodded, understanding the feeling, elated that he shared it.  
“I want to meet Viserys on the way.” Rhaella had been near hysterical with worry when she knew that it had been a week since she visited Viserys.  
Arthur looked uneasy, “The Prince ordered that you come immediately.”

She shook her head, not wanting to follow his commands suddenly, feeling reckless and subjugated. She walked briskly to the little prince’s chambers, despite her weight, Arthur following behind her, protesting.

When she entered the room, Viserys immediately stood and greeted her and Arthur properly as she had taught. She kneeled by him, pleased, taking his shoulders.  
“Did mother send sweets for me, good-sister Elia?”  
“Viserys,” she scolded, “What did I tell you about demanding things of people?”  
“Sorry, good-sister.”  
‘Do you only like me for the sweets I bring you?”  
He looked at her, shocked, “No!”  
She smiled. “How is Jahaerys the kitten?” She had given him a kitten for company, and so he would learn to love animals and take care of them.  
“He is well!” Viserys exclaimed, but remarked sadly, “He ran away to the kitchens.”  
Elia felt a sneaking suspicion and looked at Ser Darry who replied, “The prince treats the kitten well. It comes back for lunch usually.”  
“Elia,” Arthur began behind her, but Elia quieted him, making him sit on one of the hard-backed chairs.  
She took some parchment from the shelf. “Let us see how much progress you have made with your letters Viserys-“  
“Father said a prince like me must learn the sword, not letters like a Maester.”  
“You must learn your sword and letters. Only then will you be clever and brave like Prince Rhaegar. Or you will grow stupid. Do you want to grow stupid?”  
“No,” he said, shocked, and then added, “When will I learn the sword? Good-sister?” he added hastily.  
“When you are a little taller and stronger. Now write me the alphabet neatly on the sheet…. Neatly, I said….. No, Viserys, C is the other way round. Oh Viserys, you have not been practicing.”  
They sat on the floor for a while, toiling with the letters, both growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of progress, but he was young, and clever, if a little conceited, and would learn, she thought. 

The doors burst open and Rhaegar strode in. “I commanded you to come with her immediately,” he said in a harsh voice to Arthur.  
“Do not snap at him, for it was I who needed to meet Viserys on the way.”  
“The King called for us, you fool,” he roared. Viserys was bouncing up and down on his heels, trying to get Rhaegar’s attention, but Rhaegar never spent any time or cared for his little brother.  
“You should atleast acknowledge your brother’s greeting,” she told Rhaegar. Rheagar grabbed her arm painfully and pulled her out, forgetting she was with child momentarily. Jon Connington glared at her with barely concealed distaste.  
She looked at his furiously set face. Why did the Gods make some so beautiful and loved? And why did they make women like her – ugly and bitter? 

“Why does the king want to meet us?”  
“He does not state his reasons,” Rhaegar replied curtly.  
She let the matter drop as Connington worried incessantly about the king’s summons to Rhaegar, babbling to him, desperate, scrabbling for his attention, just as she was wont to do for the last few weeks, while Rhaegar walked straight ahead. She knew the way Connington looked at Rhaegar, eyes filled with admiration and longing. She wanted to scream at him, He does not love you, you foolish oaf. He only cares for himself and his prophecy.

In the Queen’s Ballroom, Aerys sat with a large, bearded man to his left.  
“So, make sure to tell Stark that wolf heads will be on the keep, if the old wolf dares to plot.” The man nodded hastily, grimacing.  
“The princess graces us with her presence. Keep away from the sensuous serpent, bear,” Jorah Mormont looked down, “Yes I understand, she is too dark for my liking too. She looks ripe with child, though. Luscious. Come, sit here.” She sat next to him and he touched her stomach with his fingers, his fingernails, even longer than before, scratching her as Rhaegar’s grip on her shoulder tightened. 

“Why so late princess? Since you are with my son’s heir, you think you can defy the King? Must I send my son like a servant to fetch you?”  
“Your Grace-“ she began, meekly.  
“The fact that the Sword of the Morning was sent to fetch you must have something to do with it, of course. Did he plunge his sword in your fleshy fruit this morn?”  
Elia shut her ears, and the king scratched her hands with his fingernails, his face close and his eyes red, breath reeking abominably.  
“Do not shut your ears to the king!” She cried out and cringed.  
“You will not harm my wife any more or speak harmful things about her,” Rhaegar said, pulling Elia away, his voice firm and commanding, but calm. He stroked her shoulders to calm her frightened sobs, and took her bleeding hands in his. She noticed how he no longer called the Mad King his father.  
“Elia only went to meet Viserys,” Arthur said, voice strained, gritting his teeth.  
“What business does this whore have with Viserys? You will no longer meet him, or influence him. I will not have my little dragon grow into the shadow of a snake.”

They glared at each other, the two dragons, one young, strong and virile, the other haggard, weak, wounded, desperate to protect its den. Elia wanted to scream at him, plead him to apologize. I am fine, do not put our child and us in danger. Aerys only turned and whispered to a servant as Mormont looked at Rhaegar in awe. 

“Sit,” Aerys said and Rhaegar calmly settled himself in the chair next to her. “The bear may take his leave. You will not breathe a word of this to anyone,” Mormont nodded and turned to glance at Rhaegar’s regal presence before leaving. 

Aerys pulled out a crumpled parchment, “Your lovely wife has written that “you shoulder the affairs of the realm-“ Sweet Elia. Do you believe Rhaegar rules?”  
“No, your grace.”  
Rhaegar said, “She only meant to say that I help you rule well, your grace. I beg that you do not read too much meaning into it.”  
“An amusing love letter. One of Varys’ birds found it.”  
“They are given leave to search our dressers?”  
“Do you have anything else hiding in her dresser Rhaegar?” The Mad King’s fingers were pressing against her belly.  
“Do not touch the princess,” Rhaegar growled, his rage barely concealed.  
“Maybe I will take her to her rooms and make her scream that it is I who shoulder the affairs of this realm!” Aerys yelled the last few words to Rhaegar as he stood, towering over him, slamming his hand on the table and breaking a finger-nail.  
“Yes, your grace. I wholly agree with you. It was just a slip on Elia’s part,” Rhaegar gripped her arm painfully.  
“You will go upstairs and punish your wife for the slip, is that clear?”  
“Yes, your grace.” They took their leave.  
Elia turned to speak to Rhaegar but he asked Whent to escort her to her chambers, striding to the yard.


	16. United by Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tchaikovsky's Arabian Dance.   
> The night is dark and full of terrors...

Rhaegar had ordered that she shift to her own chambers soon afterwards, and it was there she stayed cooped up, yearning for someone she loved, to touch her, talk to her- Rhaegar, Oberyn, Ashara, Arthur. Viserys was forbidden and she dared not step out to meet the Queen for fear of stumbling across Aerys. Her body grew unbearably heavy, and her back ached constantly. She found herself unable to eat anything.

On the third night of her arrest, Rhaegar stepped into her chamber, hair tangled, hassled. She sat up on her bed with an enormous amount of effort and Rhaegar came to her hastily, gripping her shoulders, “No, lie down.”

Angry at him, she pursed her lips and his indigo eyes looked deep into her. Today, she would not act desperate with him, she would not be his clinging wife, pleading for his affection. 

“Elia,” he cooed and she clenched her wounded hands hard to stop herself from responding. He moved around the room, taking off his muddy boots and clothes, slipping into a robe and resting on the chair, his head thrown back, eyes closed, beautiful hair weaving down the chair. ‘Another trip to Summerhall.’ She knew that crinkled, pained expression on his forehead, and pursed lips. ‘His head hurts.’

She climbed off the bed, huffing, and he looked at her side-eyed. She took some balm from the cupboard, and slowly massaged the sides of his head.  
“Why do you go to Summerhall?”  
His answer was practiced, rehearsed, “For some peace of mind.”  
“There will be no peace of mind for those who cannot go there, is it?” she asked, her voice breaking.  
“Did my father trouble you again?”  
“No, I have not stepped out, for fear of meeting him.”

He took her bandaged hands and kissed them. The tears came unbidden to her eyes and she sobbed, yet again ashamed at her weakness of will. Rhaegar stood in front of her and cupped her face, wiping her tears wordlessly with his thumbs.  
“I miss home so much,” she bawled into his shoulder, and then cringed at her childishness, and the strong smell of sweat on him.  
Rhaegar moved energetically to her dresser. “Let us do something to cheer you up.” ‘He is guilty about ignoring me’, she realized.  
“Cyvasse?” he asked, and she shook her head, lip curling with the threat of tears again as she was reminded of Ashara. “What was your favourite pastime in Dorne?”  
“Playing with the children, telling them stories, singing to them.”  
He touched her back and led her to the bed, “Sing to me then.”  
“The cough has ruined my throat.”  
He touched her the faded scars on her throat lightly. “Never mind.”  
“What sort of songs do you like?”  
“Something sad.”  
She smiled, “That is no surprise.” 

She made him sit in front of her at the foot of the bed, and took her ivory comb and some oil in hand. She gently combed his hair as she sang in Rhoynish, her voice deep, low, becoming hoarser. She pulled his hair into two plaits by the side meeting in a knot by the middle and then combed the rest of his hair until it glowed, applying some bran oil on it. When she finished singing, there were tears in her eyes from the song and Rhaegar’s hair was like a white version of Nymeria’s, soft and plush. 

He touched his hair like a child, saying “I must look womanly.”

“No,” she said wiping the tears off her face and regretting it because her hands were oily. The hair pulled to the sides emphasized his sharp cheekbones and the regal set of his face. “You usually tie it in a simple knot at the back to keep the hair off your face. I only added plaits to it. You must wash your hair more often, though.” 

She shifted as a sharp pain pierced her back, and she moved her hand to her back, grimacing.  
He caught the expression on her face and moved to the table, picking up the balm. “Lie down,” he ordered. She slipped out of her gown and lay down, chest heavy with anticipation. He turned to look at her, and blood rushed to his cock.

Her obsidian eyes were open to him, large and liquid, rimmed with charcoal, her small breasts hung heavy with large, dark, round nipples, squished together as she lay sideways, a gold chain’s dollar lying enticingly between them, her unimaginably large, beautiful belly curved under. He moved to the other side of the bed, afraid of what he might do if he kept staring. He lay down behind her and slowly massaged the balm on her beautiful, fragile, golden back, as she moaned in relief. 

‘What is the song about?” he breathed into her ear.  
“Lower,” she ordered and he shifted his hands to the back of her soft hips. She sighed, “Queen Juri and Karyun. The Queen Juri of Asshai was skilled in combat and the art of warfare. She had a son named Karyun. One night, when he was a little, she and her trusted advisor were discussing a battle manouvre where a warrior can take a small force to cut into the centre of a large force, as he played nearby. But before she could finish, a trusted advisor came in and told her she was accused of treason by the king for taking a lover. She killed herself that night to avoid humiliation.” She paused, swallowing, and Rhaegar kissed her softly between the shoulders. 

“When Karyun grew older, he grew rash and bold. He was made to lead a small force by his older brother, the new king, during a great battle. In that battle, ignoring his brother’s orders, he made his way to the centre of the large force, remembering his mother’s plan. But, he did not know the rest of the plan- how to get out of the circle. They were surrounded and killed.” Rhaegar set the balm aside and slipped his arm around her belly. As she spoke, her voice grew hoarser, “In the song, the ghost of the queen wanders the battlefield, searching for her son among the vultures, crows and dead elephants, and the unbearable stench of blood and dead meat. She first sings of his bravery, proud, but soon she screams and rants in guilt and lament for abandoning her son and causing his death.” Rhaegar murmured something.

“It is very similar to Jenny’s song, don’t you think?”  
Rhaegar only said, “Aye.”

He kissed the back of her head, and pressed his hip against hers, she stilled at the hardness on her arse. She was so voluptuous and strangely beautiful to him like this, as she talked of grief and motherhood, her luscious body responding to his soft touches on her back. He wanted to make her sing as she had when he took her, in time with the sounds of her essence. He nipped the side of her neck lightly with his teeth, undoing his breeches. She felt his cock at the back of her lips, pressing, pleading her to open them for him.

She turned her face to him, “No, the baby will be hurt,” she said, shocked. Rhaegar nodded reluctantly, and moved himself back from her, still holding her belly, as they settled into sleep.

Elia felt a sense of contentment spread its wings in her heart and take off. A gust of wind blew into the room, and she shivered as a single tear streamed down her cheek. 

1 year later, 

Little Rhaenys chucked her finger into her mouth, giggling and Elia pulled it out, gently. They were seated by the gardens, and she lifted her head to enjoy the soft breeze, it being the first time she had stepped out of the Holdfast. Oberyn had just left for Sunspear, and her heart warmed at how he had been a constant presence by her bedside when she was giving birth and the excruciatingly painful period after, ignoring the maesters’ protests. Rhaegar had been there too, but it was Oby who knew what to say to calm her and make her feel less pain. He would leave little Sarella to play in the room all day with a nurse, ignoring Rhaegar’s commands to not tire her, and Elia would revel in her antics from her bed. 

But, Rhaenys was the gem that bought all her happiness, it surprised her that such a quiet, pink thing could transform her life. She had let Rhaegar pick the name, and had felt overtly relieved when Aerys had proclaimed “She smells Dornish” to the whole court and waved away the little white cloth bundle. Rhaegar was initially hesitant in his affections towards the baby princess, and it was only when she pointed out that Rhaenys’ mouth, nose and forehead were exactly Rhaegar’s did he begin to confidently speak to the child, stroking her little tummy and making her giggle. It nearly drove Elia to tears that Rhaegar still suspected she had an affair with Arthur. 

The dark pinkness had transformed into the same colour as her own skin, Oberyn’s black curls and their obsidian eyes. Every time she looked at Rhaenys she was reminded of the precious bond now forged between her and Rhaegar- as parents, and it made a warm feeling in her belly that nearly drove away the pain and illness after the childbirth. But Rhaegar remained as distant from her as ever, only giving her brief nods while the baby was showered with his sweet affections, not even visiting her chambers for long, only pausing for courtesy visits to ask if she was well, as the maester had asked him to wait till her flesh mended, her illness subsided. I have nothing to offer him, she thought bitterly. 

Ashara and her various ladies-in-waiting sat at the table with her, daintily sipping tea and eating lemon cake. Ashara had changed immensely from her time in Starfall, she no longer greeted Elia with the same enthusiasm and all her later letters had been brief and polite. She had grown a head since the last time she saw her, making her tall and willowy and even more beautiful if possible. She had acquired a lady-like manner too, walking with a sway to her hips, but refrained from all of the silly gossip by the other ladies, quiet and superior. Half the men in the keep were infatuated with her. Arthur had told her that her father had a new step-mother whom Ashara had grown close to, explaining the change in manner.

It was Viserys’ fate that saddened her most. When she had asked how the boy fared, to Jonathan Darry two weeks ago, he had bowed his head in shame, with a simple statement that nearly killed her in fright, “He killed the kitten, your grace, after torturing it for long.” She shivered. “It is his father’s influence,” Darry whispered, “He spends too much time with his father, and now his Grace takes Viserys to the burnings, and the boy has acquired a fascination for fire.” She begged Darry to do what he could for Viserys, and cried to Rhaella, who grew more distant from her as she refused to accept that her son was becoming a monster. “My son would never do that! Who told you?” She had tried asking Rhaegar to visit his brother, but his lip curled in disgust when she told him about what he had done.  
“My father has tainted him beyond redemption.”  
“You can help him, your Grace, I’m only asking you to meet him once in a while, perhaps everyday, please.” But, Rhaegar had only nodded, waving her off to not worry whenever she brought it up again. 

Rhaenys rolled on the table, a slight wail escaping her lips as she tried to force herself to cry. Understanding the signal, Elia covered herself with a cloth and undid the clasps of her gown to feed her.  
“You must get a wet nurse, your grace,” one of the ladies said, she could not even remember her name, “You are too ill to feed her.”  
Another lady quipped up, “It is may be unsettling to see the queen to feed her child so in the gardens-“  
“It is no matter, I have covered myself,” she said softly, as the sweet child began to suckle. 

Rhaegar came in then, and a collective hush fell on the group.  
“Please sit,” he said to the group, as they stood up, giggling and staring, and he bowed to Ashara who smiled gently, showing her dimples.  
“A word with you Elia, when you are done,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a dark blue doublet with a dragon emblazoned on it. She nodded, as he put his hand on her head and kissed her hair. No doubt, for appearance’s sake. “I will be in the sept with mother. Whent will help you there.”  
All her ladies were smiling brightly at the romantic scene when he left, Elia thought a few of their faces would burst with smiling.  
“His grace is very open with his affections, is he not?” Anderra giggled, waving her fan.  
“Oh, you are so sweet together the both of you,” Ashara cooed, in a tone she herself would have cringed at only a year-and-half back.  
Elia barked at them, “It’s been quite a while since our marriage, I wish he’d stop these displays. It is no longer decent.” 

Some of their faces fell, and she could hear one of the ladies seated farther away quip something about the decency of her Dornish gown, but she ignored them. She knew she was too lenient with them, but she was not the kind to scold or punish grown women. 

Conversation swelled again after an awkward pause, and Elia took Whent’s hand, the baby firmly held in Anderra’s. By the time she was in the sept’s Hall of Lamps, she was leaning heavily on Whent.

“Do not lean so, your grace. This poor Kingsguard cock..” Anderra looked at him, scandalized. Elia only giggled and leaned further on him with a fake exhausted sigh, biting her lip and winking lightly, as Anderra blushed deeply.  
“Is this about your house’s tourney at Harrenhal?”  
“Yes,” Oswell said, “It is about the stupid tourney my arse-sucking father will throw a few moons from now.”  
“Sucking whose arse?”  
“Your husband’s” Whent whispered, “Any more words from me, and I may turn into another Ilyn Payne.” Elia nodded, understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Winterfell!


	17. Promises to keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smetana's Moldau.  
> No idea what Moldau means, but stumbled across it and thought it would fit.

Oh dear, her sewing was crooked again. She was stitching a green direwolf, because they had run out of grey thread. Her stitching was abominable, and she had no interest for such silly skills. Why would the Lady of Storm’s End need to sew? 

Benjen came running in and gripped her shoulders, “You’re getting married!” he yelled. She glared at him. “You’re supposed to marry me. You’re my lady!” Lyanna hit him on the ear and he yelped, “You are not supposed to say such things. It’s wrong.” Brandon stood at the entrance, his arms crossed, long hair wet from his weekly bath, “I’d rather you marry Benjen than the bastard Baratheon.”

Seeing an excuse, Lyanna set down her sewing, “Old Nan, please excuse me, I have matters to settle with my brothers.” Brandon’s mouth twisted up in a sneer, “Already a proper Southron-“ She hit him in the shin, ignoring Old Nan’s “Lyanna!” and it was his turn to yelp. He grabbed her arms, and Benjen kicked her shin. Soon, they were a brawling mess on the floor. Brandon was laughing, but Lyanna and Benjen were fighting for real, and he tried to keep Benjen’s nails from reaching Lyanna’s face. They stopped quickly when they heard Lord Rickard’s voice.

“Quick before Old Nan tells on us,” Lyanna said, running off to the Great Hall. Benjen chased her, still furious. Brandon yelled, “I’m too old for this,” and then “You are too,” to Lyanna but still jogged behind them. 

She ran to the godswood, much faster then her brothers. Then she collapsed, panting by the weirwood. Benjen ran toward her, fist raised, but Lyanna gasped, “Truce,” and Benjen collapsed next to her, panting. She saw that he was crying and hugged him, “Are you hurt?”  
“Are you going away?”  
“Not anytime soon, Ben,” she ruffled his sweaty hair and quickly regretted it.  
Brandon walked swiftly toward them and stood, hands on knees. “Lya-“  
“Shut up.”  
He kneeled before her, took her hands in his and looked earnestly into her eyes. Her own eyes, just as big and grey, stared back at her.  
“It’s not too late. Father is only sending the letter fixing the day of the marriage tomorrow, so you have time to change your mind.”  
“My mind is made up.”  
“You are too young to understand these things-“  
“I understand them perfectly well.”  
“Baratheon is an unfaithful man. He does things you know- with all sorts of women, all sorts of things. Think about-“  
“You are also an unfaithful man, then.”

Brandon paused, suddenly frightened at the accusation, running his tongue over his lips. “What makes you say so, Lyanna?” his voice was strained with anger.  
“You are betrothed to Catelyn Tully. But you still fuck every single Northern lady-“  
Brandon gritted his teeth, “Not in front of Benjen!”  
Benjen was looking up at them with an open mouth.  
They glared at each other. Then Brandon shook his head and ran his hands through his hair.  
“I don’t fuck ladies, only whores. That is alright.”  
“Baratheon is just like you then. And Barbrey Ryswell is no whore.”  
“Others take Barbrey, Lyanna! I don’t do it in front of everybody or boast about it in front of everybody!” Lyanna raised her eyebrows.  
“Do what?” Benjen asked.  
“Shut up Benjen, this is talk for grown people. Well if you call Baratheon unfaithful, then you are also unfaithful.”  
“Fine, I am unfaithful,” he turned her hands over, “I may get pleasure from other ladies. But, I never give their heart to them. My heart will always be with Catelyn Tully.”  
“Promise me.”  
“What?”  
“You will always be faithful to Catelyn Tully. At heart, at least.”  
He hesitated. “Promise me, Bran,” she said again.  
“I promise, Lyanna,” he kissed her forehead softly.  
“Have you even met her? Catelyn Tully?”  
“No,” Brandon said.  
“You have to meet her. Father said she’s beautiful.”  
Brandon shifted, uncomfortable. Then he smiled, “We leave tomorrow then, for Riverrun?”  
Lyanna grinned at him so hard, it hurt. “You’ll take me with you?”  
“Yes,” he said and hugged her.  
Benjen protested, “I want to come too!”  
“Of course Benjen. Boring old Ned can stay behind.” They hugged each other for a while in the godswood, and extracted promises again from Brandon that they would be leaving tomorrow. Then, Benjen pinched Lyanna and she screamed forgetting their previous brawling “I am a lady grown, Ben! You cannot pinch me now!” Brandon left, wistfully, wishing his sister had never grown so fast. 

\--------

Brandon felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned away from feeding his horse to find a woman, who swept her hood away to reveal the face of Barbrey Ryswell. “My Lord,” she whispered between her plump lips. Brandon nodded to Breac and glared at the stableboy who left immediately. Breac left, shaking his head and chuckling. 

Brandon turned to her, and she spoke, her eyes glassy from wine and desire, “I could not stop thinking about you, my lord.”  
Brandon looked away briefly, “Does your father know you are here?”  
Barbrey looked shocked, “Of course not! I lied that I was going to stay the night with my aunt.”  
Brandon swiftly removed the saddle from the horse with an angry, brute force. Barbrey asked him, “Where did my lord ride today?”  
“To see a deserter crow executed. Father insisted I do it so I may learn to wield Ice.”  
Barbrey touched his side, “My lord always says killing gets his blood up.”  
Brandon snorted bitterly in reply. Barbrey’s eyes filled with tears. “Does my lord not desire me anymore?”  
Brandon looked at her with a start and suddenly realized that this was longest conversation they had ever had fully clothed. His sister’s voice came unbidden to his mind, “Promise me, Bran.”  
He replied, “No, it is only that I ride to see my betrothed in the morn.”

Barbrey’s tears fell on her cheeks. Brandon paused, his heart in his throat with sadness at how Barbrey must feel. There was only one way to make her feel better. He grabbed her soft arse with one hand, squeezing and massaged her breasts with other, and she opened her mouth, gasping high and desperate. 

She stripped quickly, and he followed- soon they were naked as their name-day, and Barbrey put his arms on his shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Will you really marry her?”  
“I must,” Brandon said simply, fingering her nipples.  
“She will be a cold, southron lady. Frigid between her legs. Not pleasing to you like me.”  
She kissed him softly on the lips, and Brandon did not like the way it was done, like man and wife, so he pushed her away. His heart was promised to his betrothed, sealed with Lyanna’s lips, and he would honour that promise. He smiled slyly, “Mayhaps, I could put in a word to Father, if…”

“If…” Barbrey said playing along, one eyebrow cocked. She slumped to her knees, and positioned her plump lips, red and gleaming in the light of the single candle at the front of his cock, making him moan in anticipation. She was pretty in a common sort of way, with an otherwise plain face, except for her pretty lips. She had mousy brown hair, which came to her waist, and large breasts that filled his palms, soft and warm, smattered with brown freckles. He loved the curves filling up her body, wonderful to grasp with his rough hands, and her arse would quickly turn the brightest pink with the slightest pinch or slap. The thought of the ever dripping region between her soft thighs made him faint. 

Now, she moved up and down his cock, taking him insistently as he always wanted. He was never in the mood for teasing.

She led go off him with a popping sound, and fell on the hay-stack, slowly and sensuously opening her legs wide for him, exposing that lush, pink region in her brown hair. He fell on her like an animal, promises forgotten.

The next morning, moon-blood came on Lyanna in the excitement of leaving and she wept in her chambers, greatly sorrowed at not being able to ride to Riverrun, and in the pain of cramps. Brandon had kissed her good-bye and Ned soon promised Lyanna that he would take her to see her betrothed in the Vale, with himself and Benjen, as a poor consolation. 

\-------

Catelyn Tully had breasts that were almost the size of Barbrey’s, but strung up and contained within a corset. She was a beautiful creature, with eyes of the lightest blue, golden-red hair and a shapely waist. The long, dry ride to Riverrun made Brandon want to take her upstairs and tumble her onto a lush featherbed.  
But, to no avail. He was stuck feasting with the Tullys, and though the wine was good and the music passable, all Catelyn did was giggle to her companions and titter to her fool of a little sister, catching his heated glances with endearing blushes and shy tilts of her head.

The music started and the floor slowly filled with dancers. As Catelyn waited patiently in her chair, eyes on the floor, smiling, Brandon bent whispered in his gruff voice, “Care for a dance my lady?”

Two sea-blue eyes looked up, impossibly big, and she nodded.

He swept her through the floor, being a moderately good dancer, and she was a little off-step in the nervousness and wooziness of being held so close. Catelyn could not even look at him for too long- he glowed in a halo for her, with his broad muscled shoulders, and handsome, rugged face with a dark beard and deep grey eyes. He gave her a blinding, wolfish grin and she smiled and averted her eyes. 

“My lady, you look truly breathtaking tonight.”  
“Thank you. You too- my lord.” She blushed, realizing how stupid that had sounded.  
He chuckled softly. His hands pressed into her back. They were dancing much too closely, and Catelyn tried to put some distance between them when she caught Hoster Tully’s keen eye. She had promised her father that she would do nothing more than kiss Brandon.

“Nothing more, you understand?” he had asked her, and she had nodded, “Promise.”  
“I promise, father. Brandon would not do anything of the sort- he would wait for-for-after.” Her father had nodded dismissively.

Brandon whispered in her ear, “Do you want to join me after the feast, my lady?”  
“Y-yes, Bran-my lord.” The Stranger seemed to have stolen the words from her mouth. He smiled brilliantly at her, and she realized he was a little drunk. There was a sweet smell of wine coming from him, and a not-so-sweet smell coming from near his armpits, which made her shift further away.

“Stark!” a voice called out, and a hubbub rose through the crowd gathered for the feast. Brandon was still gazing into Tully blue.  
“Brandon Stark!” a diminutive, stick-thin figure, evidently well into his cups, stalked to Brandon as the hall began to grow silent to hear the exchange. Brandon and Catelyn moved apart, though he still clutched her arm protectively.  
“Petyr, please,” Catelyn begged.  
Grey-green eyes snapped to Brandon, “I challenge you,” he drawled, tongue slick from wine, “To a duel for Lady Catelyn’s hand.”  
Brandon laughed, and some of his bannermen followed suit.  
Petyr was unfazed, “Tomorrow at dawn in the yard. If you are a man of honour, you will come.”  
Brandon’s eyes turned serious, “Very well, may I have the additional honour of knowing who fights with me?”  
“Petyr of House Baelish.”  
“Never heard of it. Fine boy, if you insist. It should be a good morning exercise before our return journey.” His men laughed again.  
Petyr smirked and turned, stalking away. The little fool thinks he’s in love, Brandon realized. But, he would protect his betrothed’s honour with his blood.  
Catelyn immediately walked to her father, and they both talked quietly to each other, worried, hands on their foreheads. Brandon bid his time, waiting.

When the feast was near over, he signaled to her with his eyes to meet him outside. She came with him, and they stood close to each other near a pillar on the outside of the castle.  
The smiles were gone from her face and she gazed into the distance sadly. Brandon felt as though his blood was on fire.  
“Is there affection between you two?” he barked.  
“I only think of him as a brother.” Brandon was pleased, and took her slight waist with both of his large hands, suddenly.  
“And what do you think of me as?” The silly smile returned to her face and a pretty blush crept up her neck.  
“Lysa, my sister, says we look like the Maiden and Warrior together.” Brandon smiled and nuzzled her neck and she gasped softly. His arms slid all the way across the back, and he held her close to him.  
She moved her head away from his shoulder, and whispered to him, “Please do not kill him.”  
“It is a duel, Catelyn. One person must die, and it will be him.”  
“He does not know what he is doing. He is stupid and rash, and only a boy. Please promise me you won’t kill him.”  
Brandon sighed, “I will try not to. Only, because you asked.” She smiled, brightening and nodded.  
“May I have a favour from my lady before the duel?”  
Catelyn tiptoed and pressed a chaste, light kiss on his lips, and he nearly wilted in disappointment. She smiled at him gently, and extricated herself, making her way to her chambers. Brandon sighed. So many promises to keep.


	18. Anything for family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tchaikovsky's D minor violin concerto for the emotional intensity

Elia was rocking Rhaenys to sleep and Ashara was reclining on a chair by the window, when Rhaegar burst in. It was a bright night with a full moon outside, requiring no candles. Elia’s face glowed strangely pale in the moonlight.

Ashara left quickly with a greeting, nod and strange, sly smile at Elia. 

Rhaegar stroked Rhaenys’ forehead with a finger, smiling as her forehead wrinkled and she gurgled happily. He kissed her eyes, forehead and small mouth.

“Keep that up, and she should be drenched in your spit,” Whent commented from outside the open doors. 

Rhaegar ignored him and stroked the little one’s cheek, whispering sweet nothings to her, “Are you not bea-you-ti-ful?” “Are you not father’s little girl?” as Whent shifted impatient. 

“Whent, take her to the nursery,” Rhaegar commanded. Her daughter was transferred to armored arms. “Bring her back if she starts to cry. Do not drop her,” Elia added with a glare, and Whent gave her an untrustworthy, crooked smile and wink. He carried her like a tray in both hands, as baby and Kingsguard looking at each other curiously.

“He is going to drop her,” Elia sighed, leaning back.  
“Arthur, shut the doors and leave.” Elia felt a sudden jolt of thrill through her body.  
Rhaegar moved toward her, to undo her gown, “Since you are healed-“  
“You remember you have a wife again?” Elia spat out.  
His eyebrows set and eyes cool, he said, “Pycelle says you are well enough to do your duty.”  
“My duty?” she asked, choking.  
“The prince that was promised,” Rhaegar murmured. She stilled, eyes wide, staring at him like a stranger. 

He turned his back to her and took off his doublet and tunic. His heart had thudded like the booms of a tourney drum, when he saw Elia feeding Rhaenys earlier- the scene was so tender and loving. He had asked Pycelle that very afternoon, in such a haste was he, in front of the whole small council. She had refused a wet nurse to feed her babe, even in the throes of death, even as he tried to force her not to. 'I want to make love to her,' he thought.

“Why did you not come often before you could do your duty?” Elia asked, her voice querulous and a tear flowing down her cheek in sorrow and fear.

“I was scared I would hurt you.” He stared at her heated, and she shivered.  
He pulled her gown up and undid her smallclothes, his hands frighteningly cold on her body. He looked at her face, those queer small lips, like those painted on a baby doll, and kissed them softly. The hens she surrounded herself with were pretty like sunshine, colored eyes, light hair, but she was the sultry night itself, with a darkness to her features that made her ladies seem like silly children. 

He parted her thin thighs gently and touched lightly between them, finding her dry as bone, making him sigh. One more tear flowed down her face and she sniffed, the bones in her throat sticking out from fear and her bird-like collarbone standing out prominently. He wiped her tears away with his fingers, and cooed, “Elia.”  
She screwed her eyes shut, “Do whatever you must.”  
“I will be gentle,” he cajoled, “Pycelle told me of the stitches.” He undid the clasps on her gown and her small, milk-laden breasts spilled out. He touched a large, round, sensitive dark nipple. “No,” Elia whispered, “Do not do anything to them. Rhaenys will need to drink.”

He nodded, and kissed the three stretch marks on her belly, sucking the skin into his mouth and releasing it gently. She began to relax, but when he lowered his mouth to her curls, she tensed again and he went back up, tracing her collarbones, kissing them to calm her. He then gently kissed her throat, and each of the bones standing out on it, tracing small circles on her lower stomach, until she melted into his body, and he found that her essences had begun to flow. 

He kissed her lips when he pushed into her, slow and gentle, and she made a little intimate noise only for his ears. Her eyes were half closed, only the whites showing, and the bones in her neck were like mountain ranges. He kissed the deep valley at the hollow of her throat, resisting the urge to bite her savagely. He paused inside for a while, admiring her this way, and then pulled out. 

He speared her slowly and she moaned, high and thin, gasping at the end of each crescendo. His hair brushed her face, neck and breasts and his silver chain pressed painfully between her collarbones as his face moved above her, his hooded indigo eyes fixed on her. “Kill me,” she whispered as he drew his sword in and out, painfully slow. Rhaegar bit her lip hard, and tasted blood. “Aye, I will, but slowly,” he whispered back and she whimpered, as he drew her legs wider around him. 

He lifted her up, hands gripping her arse and speared deeper, stroking her unexplored depths and she began to quake violently, her throat straining, mouth rounded as though she was playing her flute. She threw her head back on the pillows, and moaned hoarsely, showing him the length of her beautiful, golden throat, hair splayed about her face, her cunt tightening around him unbearably and he kissed her throat and filled her with his seed in bursts, his body shuddering. 

Rhaegar lay watching her, as she breathed hard, breasts heaving gently. Her whole body was drenched in sweat despite the cold, and when she turned to him, she traced his face with her hand and asked, “Did you meet the woods-witch this time?” Rhaegar stilled. “In Summerhall.” she whispered. 

The anger began to roil in his eyes, “That is not of your concern.”  
“That is why you go to Summerhall, do you not?” she continued, “To seek out the witch who was the friend of Jenny of Oldstones. The dwarf who remained in the tower when she flew out.” The room became much colder, and Elia shivered. She felt scared suddenly, for Rhaenys, for Rhaegar, for her babies to be born, because of this madness in her husband. Rhaegar moved away from the bed and took out the black satin robe stored in the dresser.

“Do not listen to her Rhaegar. She will only harm us. Prophecy is not meant to be acted out.” Rhaegar pulled on the robe and threaded the tassel, wordlessly.  
“Do you know what happened in Summerhall? Rhaella told me,” she whispered softly. The dimming evening light cast strange shadows on him.

Whent announced himself loudly on the other side, suddenly, “Rhaenys is crying!”  
An indignant wail sounded, and Whent burst in, with a comically panicked expression. He handed Rhaenys to Elia and said, smirking, “Finished for the night?”  
“Whent,” Rhaegar barked, lashing out like a mad dog, eyes furious. But Whent only grinned and left quickly, shutting the doors behind him.  
“Look she’s crying because of you,” Elia said as Rhaenys’ sobs worsened at her father’s shout. Rhaegar sat next to her and stroked the baby’s head, as Rhaenys took Elia’s nipple in her mouth and began to suck. Rhaegar kissed Elia’s hair, her neck, her shoulder and Rhaenys’ head, filled with tenderness for his new family. Elia’s eyes were full of unanswered questions and unsaid things, but he shook his head. 

When Rhaenys finished, she lay her gently on the bed and she kicked joyfully, but sleepily into the air. Rhaegar lay next to his daughter, watching her slowly fall asleep, as Elia sang her a Rhoynish lullaby in her hoarse voice, breaking into a harsh cough in the middle, as Rhaegar rubbed her arms and back. Soon, Rhaenys was sleeping and Rhaegar’s eyes were half closed, but Elia tapped his arm, whispering, “If you sleep with your hair open like that, it will be hopelessly tangled by morn.” So, he sat on the foot of the bed like before, and she braided his hair, humming, her small hands and fingers warm on his neck and scalp. She scolded him gently for not washing his hair and kissed his scalp when she was finished. 

“Do you like my braid better or Jude’s?” she asked teasingly and he took his braid in hand and examined it.  
“Jude’s,” he said smiling and she pouted. He kissed that pout, and he saw that brightness in her eyes and joy on her face, he had always wanted to see.  
If only I had known it was this simple, he thought sadly.  
They slept with Rhaenys in the middle, their little family. 

\--------

3 months later,  
Jaime made the servants lower his luggage in the room. When they left, one remained behind, and she shut the door behind her. Jaime stilled at her familiar walk, hips swaying, and she took off her cloak to reveal that she was in simple servant’s garb. 

Jaime laid a hand on her waist, and drunk her in with his eyes. Even in such common clothes, she looked an exceptional beauty, her cheeks a slight pink in the cold, his own emerald eyes staring back at him, breasts larger than before, soft and straining under the laces.

She unlaced his breeches with her small hands and they kissed each other, beginning soft and loving, bitter at their estrangement and then turning hard, violent and desperate. He squeezed and massaged her breasts within the gown, pulling them out, biting and gnawing at her nipples as she shuddered and scratched him with her nails, gasping. She rubbed the hardness of his cock with her nimble fingers.

Cersei moved out of his arms, leaving him dazed, to the other side of the bed and let the gown puddle to her knees revealing her smallclothes about soft, cushiony thighs. Her breasts were wet with spittle, nipples red from his desire. She slowly and teasingly lowered her smallclothes, revealing her golden curls. 

“Lie on the bed,” she ordered. She lowered her full lips to his cock and laid tender kisses on them, licking the slight smatterings of seed on the head. He threw his head back, gritting his teeth to stop himself from pumping into her mouth as she began to take him in her mouth for the first time, slowly and hesitantly. She gagged a little, and Jaime nearly spilled his seed in her throat when her muscles twitched involuntarily. Soon she was swallowing him up and down in her silky throat, pressing her wet tongue on him, but released him just when he was about to peak. He groaned, straining to look at his cock which was red, painfully swollen with seed. 

“Father means to marry you to Lysa Tully.”  
“I will marry her as long as she has a cunt.”  
“No,” Cersei whispered, “You will not,” settling her golden curls at the tip of his cock.  
“Does she fuck as well as you?” Jaime whispered, “I bet she does.”  
“No,” Cersei whispered louder, sliding down him with a wet sound, and pausing when she reached the hilt, keeping him inside her.  
“She is ugly and no longer a maiden.”  
“No longer a maiden? Then I bet she knows how to fuck well.”  
Cersei began to ride him slow and deep. “Better than this?” she asked.  
“Aye.”  
She closed her eyes and swiveled her hips, grinding them gently, and he whimpered. “Better than this?”  
“I’ve heard she rides any willing man hard and fast.”  
Cersei began to ride faster, and he pumped up into her, hard and wanting. But, just when he was reach his release again, she slid off him. Jaime thought his cock would burst with desire and he groaned in frustration. 

“You cannot marry Lysa Tully.”  
“Then you can marry me.”  
“I have a better suggestion,” she stroked his chest. “Elia Martell is very ill after giving birth to her first child. She may not be able to bear any more children. Then Rhaegar may look for other suitable matches and I will become queen. If you were to become a – Kingsguard, then we could be together forever,” she pleaded.

Jaime nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of her plea. “So you will fuck Rhaegar when my cock withers in white armor?”  
Cersei’s eyes filled with tears. She lay on him and looked into his face and he was lost in her eyes – his own green eyes, moist and fringed with longer golden eyelashes. “But what if father marries you to someone and I become queen, and we can never be close like this? Oh Jaime, all I want is to be queen. I do not want the prince. I will be queen and you will be near me and we can make love whenever we want. Or father will marry you away. Please Jaime.”

She straddled him again, “I could give you this whenever you wanted,” and fucked him slow and deep, until he spilled his seed deep in her.  
They fucked all night, Cersei’s moans became his night-song and his grunts accompanied them in an eternal rhythm, until Cersei sobbed into his chest in the end. “I just want to be near you Jaime.”  
Jaime looked at his sister’s face, swollen from tears, and felt a blinding fury towards his father who wanted to keep them apart, a Faith that would hang them for love, and himself for letting her cry, when every tear on her cheek was like blood from his heart. She was him, and he was her, and if they were apart, they were not each other. They were meant to be together, they came into this world together and they would leave it together.  
And he could have her whenever he wanted. 

As he lay on her, still inside her, and she whimpered, he leaned close to her ear, a pink shell hidden in her golden strands and whispered,  
“Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Harrenhal where Rhaegar-Lyanna begins.


	19. Unthinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beethoven's Eroica Symphony (No. 3)  
> There's joy, but its bittersweet.

Lyanna had never seen so many lords – nay people- gathered together in one place. Her first trip below the Vale had proved much more exciting than she had thought, if that was even possible. Brandon and she were racing the last few metres, and she had a slight lead.

“You have the better horse!” Brandon yelled.  
“Sore loser!” Lyanna yelled, with some choice expletives. Brandon gave a mock snarl and the wind ruffled his hair.  
“Oh Gods, Ned is crawling,” Brandon panted, snickering.  
Lyanna looked back at Ned riding with the retinue, talking to Jory, and Brandon tried to overtake her again, taking advantage of the distraction.  
Benjen screamed indignantly behind them, pleading them to ride slower for him.  
“Let us slow down for Benjen,” Brandon said slyly.  
“You slow down first.” She overtook him slightly again.  
“You want me to break a leg before I ride the jousts?”  
“So eager to crown Catelyn?” she teased, “I think I will ride the jousts, beat you and crown Robert Baratheon the Queen of Love and Beauty.” Brandon chuckled at that and then his face darkened at her impending marriage.

They slowed down to a trot only after crossing the gates and Lyanna put up her arms and danced daringly on her horse, gloating over her win as several lesser lords looked on curiously.

There were pavilions upon pavilions, with roses, lightning bolts, horses, giants, and a hundred other sigils on them. On the east she could see her betrothed’s sigil of Storm’s End and her lip curled in disgust at the memory of little Mya Stone in the Vale. So she turned from it and looked at the the royal pavilion, magnificent in black and red, with the dragons emblazoned on it, making all the other pavilions look like toy-tents.

Benjen punctuated his every breath with gasps, until Lyanna kicked him in the shin. The castle made her gasp, though. It was the largest structure she had ever seen, terrible and ominous with five huge towers, burnt from Aegon’s Conquest. The curse of Harrenhal, she thought, remembering Old Nan’s tales with a rush of thrill, as Ned babbled on behind them about how thick the walls were and the height of the towers. 

\----------

Elia sat at the feast of a thousand lords in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Harrenhal is an ill-omened place, she thought. She touched her belly protectively, thinking of the new life that was beginning to take root within. She remembered how Rhaegar had smiled until his face nearly came apart when she told him, turning pink in excitement and the tears that had threatened to drip from his eyes. She smiled at the sweet memory and rubbed the belly.

Ashara leaned and kissed her head. “You look so beautiful when you do that.” Elia had taken to the new lady-like Ashara quickly. She soon understood Ashara was just the same at heart, but more refined, no doubt by a step-mother who had disciplined her well. She had an added eye for men, however, and they for her. 

“Oh the Gods, Roose Bolton is staring at me.” Elia looked across and saw that the Leech Lord had fixed his unsettling gaze on Ashara. Elia glared at him so he would turn away, and succeeded.  
Ashara giggled, “With a friend like you, and a brother like Arthur, I should likely become a silent sister.” Elia grunted in reply, casting her eyes around for any other unwelcome gazes on Ashara.  
“Who is that? The man with long hair and broad shoulders, and such a handsome face?”  
“That is Brandon Stark-“ she broke off in shock, when the man turned a heated gaze on Ashara as he sipped from the goblet, wolfish grey eyes on her. A high blush rose on Ashara’s neck, and he finally turned away.  
“He is promised to another,” Elia said, bristling, “Betrothed to a Tully girl.”  
Ashara tried to make an interested noise and failed, touching her hair to make sure it was not messy. Elia noticed how the younger Stark sent shy, hesitant glances her way. All of the wolves and lions and stags in the hall were ready to pounce, and she could scarce keep them away.

But, the pressing matter of Ashara was forgotten when Aerys suspiciously asked where Rhaegar was again, casting his eyes about for any absent lords he might be plotting with. But there were none- Rhaegar simply hated hobnob and hence, feasts.  
“He looks strong,” Ashara commented to her softly, but Elia was distracted by the entry of the prince, her husband. 

Rhaegar strode in like a true king, nodding his greetings, clapping Brandon Stark on the back, as his sister and youngest brother looked up at him, mouths and eyes wide open in admiration. He was magnificent in the black doublet with a ruby-studded dragon Elia had commissioned, his blood-red cloak billowing behind him. After greeting a few other lords, he sat in his place between her and the Mad King and Elia could see clearly that the Mad King did not take kindly to his obvious popularity. Rhaegar addressed him respectfully and received a request.  
Aerys’ soft voice hushed every-one near him. “Rhaegar, what a pleasure. All the lords have only been asking for you. No doubt they want to hear our bard play is it not? Where is your harp?”  
Rhaegar ignored the insult and asked for the bard’s harp. He began to tune it adjusting the knobs, as she hummed the pitch for him softly. He sat on the table, cloak spread around him, rested a foot on his chair, and began to play, the hearth casting shadows on his face, his eyes glassy.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts...”

No, Elia though with a pang, no, he must not sing that song here. She is listening. A slight breeze blew, though the windows were far, which no-one but Elia noticed. She turned her head fearfully and saw the flames flicker and a mouth opening in a scream. A gush of wind, as Jenny fell to her death-

She was distracted by the quiet sobs escaping Ashara’s mouth, thankfully. She clutched her hand tightly. Every lady in the hall was weeping, including her, though her tears were more from fright than sorrow. Every man’s face was dry, as they heard, but did not understand. The song was over too quickly, and as Rhaegar climbed down, the silence was interrupted by a loud splash and yelp. Elia felt herself giggle when she saw that Brandon’s younger sister had poured wine on her youngest brother’s head, squealing, “I am not crying!”, her face drenched with tears. That returned the feast to its normalcy, with the real bard was taking his harp from Rhaegar and striking up a jolly tune as couples took to the floor. 

Rhaegar’s face was solemn as he asked his mother for a dance and she was left with Ashara who sipped a full cup of wine to wipe away the sorrow, her recklessness returning.  
“Ashara, that is enough wine.“  
Ashara turned to her drunk, “If you were not married to him, I would have swept him away and wiped the sorrow of his face.”  
“Nobody can,” she murmured to herself.  
She swallowed, feeling terribly inadequate for her husband, Ser Barristan was leading Ashara away for a dance.  
“May I?” Oberyn asked her, smiling, and he swept her away, the both of them laughing at the ludicrous drinking contest between Robert Baratheon and Richard Lonmouth, and Ser Selmy’s straight-backed dancing.

Ashara danced with Brandon’s shy younger brother at his insistence and she was touched by Brandon’s kind gesture. Though his younger brother danced awkwardly, and was rather plain-faced, he was quiet and rather likeable. 

At near the end of the celebrations, she managed to slip away from Elia’s watchful eyes and Arthur’s panicked gaze, making her way to the Stark pavilion. A large, rough hand grabbed her and she began to scream, but it was muffled by another hand. She turned to face Brandon Stark. He was clad in dark leathers, a thick fur coat, and a wolfish grin.  
“Searching for me, Lady Dayne?”  
“No,” she said, twirling her hair, “I was searching for your younger brother.”  
“Do you know his name?” She did not know.  
“Rickard?”  
Brandon laughed, “That is my father’s name lady. Unfortunately he is up north, so you may have to travel a bit to warm his bed.”  
“Warm his bed? What makes you think I have such intentions?”  
“Such a piece of seduction on two legs, wandering late at night cannot have any other intention.”

She leaned forward and placed two hands on his chest, raising her lips to him. Brandon nearly fainted at the sight of those beautiful, big, violet eyes matching her gown, dainty nose and plump lips. To think he had been tasting the likes of Barbrey and panting behind Catelyn shamed him when such glinting gems roamed free and desperate down south.  
“Oh, my lady, what if someone were to come by us?”  
“Then, you will have to marry me, sweet Brandon.”  
Brandon shuddered, “I will have duties as Lord of Winterfell in the future my lady, which I cannot fulfill if I marry you.”  
“Why would you not fulfill them, my lord?”  
“I would always be abed with a violet-eyed beauty.” He raked his eyes over her greedily, taking in her perfect, round breasts, smooth raven hair, slim waist and long legs through her sinful violet silks.  
“Why not start now?” she whispered, and he kissed her sweet, heart-shaped lips deeply, then swept her into his arms as she giggled, took her into his tent and dropped onto the furs with her, urgent, unthinking.

\-------------------

The next morning, Lyanna woke, her mind made up. The birds were out, chirping to one another, the servants carrying around buckets for baths, the milkman going from tent to tent with pitchers and cups, a fruit seller shouted his wares between the tents. Lyanna bought an apple from him and stalked to Eddard’s tent.

All night she had thought of Rhaegar playing his harp, how tragic and –beautiful he had looked, with his long silver hair about him. And his voice, sweet as honey had made her weep with that song. But he was married and his wife was so stately and dignified that she could never match up to her grace.

Lyanna had been irritated by the girlish giggles coming from Brandon’s tent, but she slowly imagined the rhythmic grunts and moans from the next tent to be her and Rhaegar, only Rhaegar would be gentle with her and not laugh as hoarsely as Brandon. She had gently touched herself in the place Old Nan told them to never, and sighed at the feeling. He would sing to her as they made love-  
\- Eddard was awake and polishing armour.  
“Are you riding the jousts?” she asked surprised.  
“No, this is Brandon’s. Benjen is not anywhere to be found.” Aye, Lyanna had asked him to find her armour.  
“I will help you,” she said sitting down.  
Eddard sighed, “What do you want?”  
“I do not want to marry Robert Baratheon.”  
“Lyanna!” He buried his face in his hands, ‘What is it his display yesterday?”  
“Brandon, is much better than him,” Lyanna spat, “And you know how Brandon is! At least he doesn’t try to pull every passing serving girl into his lap!”  
“He will be better once he marries you-“  
“No! I saw that little girl in the Vale – Mya Stone with his black hair and his ruddy cheeks and his stupid blue eyes. I do not want a dozen of his bastards running around my knees. And I do not want to marry someone who drinks like an Umber.”  
“Lya-“  
“Write to him. Tell him. I do not care. I will not marry him.” She stalked out of the tent, satisfied at heart, tears in her eyes. She would make her own future now, even if it meant running to the Free Cities. But now she had a friend to avenge.

\-------------------------

The next morning, everyone looked for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, but he was nowhere to be found. Aerys was furious, and demanded that Rhaegar unmask the brave mystery knight, and he had ridden out in haste. Those gathered were greatly disappointed by the absence of the Knight however, for he was a crowd favourite.  
“Who is he?” Ashara asked Elia curiously. She had been ‘unwell’ for most of the previous day, and Elia shivered in fright at one possible reason for it, and the reason why she was missing the whole of the feast night…..

“It was a knight who wanted to discipline three squires for supposedly beating a defenseless man,” Elia shouted above the crowds. “He defeated all three squires, taking over their horses and armour, and his ransom for their property was that their lords teach them honour. They got good beatings after that.”  
“Who do you suppose it is?” she yelled back.  
“I do not know,” she shrugged. Ashara turned to the tourney ground, amused. The melee was set to begin, and Robert Baratheon was already reeling for a fight, waving his hammer, casting his eyes about the audience as though searching for someone. 

\----------------------

Rhaegar took Arthur with him on a half-hearted search through the castle grounds, but Arthur seemed keen to find out who it was.  
“We could find him and let him go,” Arthur argued, but Rhaegar thought it was not worth the trouble with his father.  
Suddenly, Arthur stopped in his tracks. Rhaegar turned around, irritated, “What?”  
“Do you remember the slight man with the Starks? He was limping, and bruised, bandaged in several places. I asked Whent who it was and he said it was a crannogman. The Knight said the man the squires were beating was his bannerman and the crannogmen are sworn to the Starks-”  
“Then it must be one of the Stark siblings. Wolfsblood,” he spat on the ground, “The younger ones more like, what is the youngest boy’s name?”  
“Eddard, I think.”  
“Thank you Arthur, now I know who it is and can live with the guilt of one additional lie to my father.”  
“To the grounds then.”  
“No Arthur,” Rhaegar stilled him, “The tents first. The Stark’s arm was injured by a splinter in the last joust.”

Sounds of a heated argument bubbled from the Stark’s tent.  
“No, do not pour any more wine, it hurts!” a high voice squealed.  
Rhaegar pushed the tent open to see a boy with the Stark look pouring wine on an injured arm.  
“You-you are the Knight of the Laughing tree?” Arthur stuttered.  
Rhaegar’s heart stopped when he saw the girl - nay a woman grown- turn to face them - she was beautiful beyond words. She had eyes a striking grey eyes like skies before a storm, near obscenely large red lips and curly, raven hair about a long, sculpted face fair as sin.  
She bowed low to him, “Your Grace,” trying to restrain her brother who was reaching for a dagger.  
Arthur quickly spoke as Rhaegar stood, tongue-tied, “We mean no harm. The King is searching for you and it is best if you head back to the tourney grounds. I do not know what sort of foolishness you aim for, but hide that arm in a long-sleeved gown!”

Rhaegar kneeled by her, speechless and took her shapely arm gently in his hand, observing the healing, torn flesh in the centre. He rubbed some wine on the wound as she whimpered, her long lashes fluttering, and then bound it neatly with the white cloth. Arthur wrested the dagger from the boy and scolded him.  
“Thank you,” she said, her voice high and sweet, as knight and boy wrestled.  
“Lyanna?” he asked.  
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes wide with awe and excitement.  
“You were very brave to ride the jousts and are truly beautiful beyond words. May I have a favour from you?”  
She scrambled to stand up and looked around her tent desperately. He felt a warm heat spread through his chest at how womanly she was, gazing at him with her breath-taking eyes and that beautifully thin waist, yet how courageous and strong, with enough ice in her blood to defeat three grown men.  
Ice and Fire. 

She finally gave him a small dagger, and he took it, surprised.  
“It is quite an unusual favour, Lyanna.”  
She shivered when she heard her name spoken by his smooth, velvety voice.  
“A stupid cloth will never help you, but a dagger can save your life anytime,” she proclaimed, head held high, and Arthur chuckled, “Well said.”  
“Thank you,” he took her hand, gazing at the callouses, long fingers and bitten nails and kissed it gently, “Arthur and I will leave now. Wear a gown quickly and come out. Follow us to the grounds but at a great distance. If you are in trouble, shout, but I am sure you can defend yourself well,” he said, eyeing a bigger dagger she was already slipping in her boot. She looked up from the boot and smiled at him wickedly, and Rhaegar swallowed thickly.  
Benjen spotted Dawn on Arthur’s waist as he headed out. “Is that Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning? Oh Lyanna, I called him a fool!”  
Lyanna’s deep laughter sounded from the tent and Rhaegar smiled widely at its honesty, hiding his grin from Arthur by pretending to rub his nose, as he rode back to the tourney grounds.

\--------------------

Elia gave him a stupid cloth. It was an embroidery of a red dragon on a black cloth, “Rhaenys made the last stitch,” she said excitedly, “Is that not so, Rhaenys?” Rhaenys said, “Ma,” in reply, the other word she knew being, “Dracool” for dragon. Rhaegar kissed his daughter’s head and watched his wife’s wide, innocent smile, feeling a sudden stab of guilt at his infidelity of thought. For his mind kept re-imagining those stormy grey eyes and what it would feel like to kiss her red, red lips…

Elia met with Ashara near the stands, handing Rhaenys over reluctantly to a nurse. Ashara’s hands were tightly clasped together, as she looked at Brandon, a slight smile on her face.  
“Your favour is with Stark?” she asked, “Then what about Arthur? He does not have a favour,” she frowned at her.  
Ashara sighed, “It is no matter.” Ashara’s favour was a purple ribbon with white flowers woven on it, and it was nowhere to be seen on Brandon’s person, while Rhaegar had tied her dragon cloth to flutter from his helm. No doubt, Brandon had gotten several favours, she realized, her blood boiling.  
She quickly untied the red ribbon from her hair and walked back to Rhaegar’s tent. She gave Arthur the ribbon, and smiled fondly at his shocked expression, “Since, Ashara has given hers to Stark,” she said sadly. Arthur’s face darkened with anger and puzzlement, and she left, wishing Rhaegar luck on the way out.  
Rhaeger felt his heart sour when he saw Elia give Arthur the favour. ‘She favours us equally’, he thought bitterly, ‘after all this time.’

That day, Rhaegar rode as if possessed. He was possessed by desire for the wolf maiden, the ice to his fire- her eyes, her lips, her hair, her laughs, her smiles, her strength and her character- brave, just, honourable and honest. He defeated Brandon Stark, her wolf-brother, and with her eager, clever grey eyes on him he bested his near equally matched opponent- Arthur with ease, for Lyanna was more worthy than anything Elia could offer - and finally Barristan the Bold himself. 

The laurel of roses came into his hands, and he nearly laughed when he saw the blue, winter roses woven together, so fitting for his ice queen, the only woman in the world worthy of him, as if the Gods themselves had decreed it. 

There was no hesitation in him when he rode to Lyanna and placed the laurel on her lap near her clenched hands. A hushed silence fell over the audience, and for a split second it was only the both of them in the world, holding each other’s gaze. And then he rode away, knowing the Seven hells would break loose. But he did not care, for he was no longer thinking, only feeling, his heart beating his ice queen’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments will be appreciated! Mid-story blues.


	20. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Profokiev's Dance of the Knights  
> When everything comes crashing, but you're determined to not be crushed.

“I want to go to King’s Landing!” Lyanna roared.  
“You will come back to Winterfell with us!” Brandon roared back.  
Ned was seated on the chair, cradling his head in his hands, “Will you both sit down, please?”  
Benjen shouted, “I want to go to King’s Landing too!”  
“Enough,” Brandon barked, “Lyanna, one more word from your mouth and I may become Princeslayer for all the unwanted attention he has given you.”  
“It is only unwanted attention if I do not want it,” Lyanna barked back, furious, “And you cannot say such things, it is treason.”  
“That is right Brandon. But not the other part, Lyanna.” He stood up and went to her, trying to brush her tears of frustration as she swatted him away, “He is married,” he said, briefly, “Do you disagree with that Lyanna?”  
“No,” she said in a small voice.  
“If you went to King’s Landing and he were to dishonor you, Brandon would go mad,” Ned whispered, “ He would kill the Prince, and be executed for it. How would you feel about that?”  
“I will fight Brandon!” It appeared he had taken a wrong line of argument. Brandon snarled at her.  
“You would be a mother roaming the Keep, with a bastard, all alone, as the lords and ladies talk horrible things about you for stealing a married man away. Do you know what is the worst crime a man can commit?”  
“Murder?” Lyanna said, becoming sadder, knowing they would never let her win this argument. Brandon was fighting Benjen, who was trying to scratch his face. He caught Ben in his arms but he still struggled.  
“The worst crime is to forget one’s vows. And Rhaegar forgot his marriage vows when he crowned you.”  
Lyanna sniffled, at a loss for words.  
“Now, do you understand why what Prince Rhaegar did was wrong?”  
Lyanna shook her head, still adamant, “He is sad because of her. She is making him sad, and I want to make him happy!”  
“Horseshit and Whore’s Cunt!” Brandon spat, “The man sobs on about dying mothers, and all the women fall for him like green squires at a tourney.”  
Ned sighed to Brandon, “We will have to drag this one back home,” he looked at a clawing, biting Benjen, “And that one.”

\-----------------

Elia covered her emotions under a mask of nonchalance, for nearly two years in the Red Keep had taught her to be a good mummer, if nothing else. They were nearing King’s Landing, and soon she would have her flutes to play her misery away into the wind. However she tried to chase it away with false smiles and japes until then, it followed her around in the pitying glances of lords and ladies, the cruel smiles of Aerys and her own heart beating its pain. 

If he hates me so, he could have at least crowned Rhaenys.  
But, she suspected it was not hate but something else, for she noticed his easy smiles and carefree manner and how he rode well ahead of the group, as though impatient to break free of his shackles. She remembered one night, that seemed long ago, when she wore her red damask, and Rhaegar had said, “I feel like an intruder.” She finally understood why- she felt like a mere encumbrance in a great love between a wild beauty and the silver prince. Bards would sing of it through the Seven Kingdoms and she would be the jealous viper in that song, spitting venom.

Elia bent her head and let the tears drip, wiping them away quickly as Ashara stepped into the carriage with Rhaenys. Ashara was a shadow of the lively girl of past, with grey circles under her eyes, and a face as though it would break into tears at any moment.  
Rhaegar had avoided talking to her since the tourney, thankfully, but he took Rhaenys with him on his long rides ahead, and fed her the things he and his men ate when she was hungry. Elia was worried that the little girl was not getting enough of her milk, or worse, he would slowly steal her away from Elia. 

Elia brushed away such morose thoughts and pulled the little one’s fingers from her mouth with a scolding. Rhaenys had recently developed the disgusting habit of sucking her two middle fingers and she was determined put a stop to it, with no intention of letting her suck thumb well into childhood like Viserys, who had slipped back into the old habits she had disciplined him out of. She applied some bitterseed oil on her fingers, and the next time Rhaenys stuck her fingers in her mouth, she pulled them out with a disgusted cry.  
Ashara laughed softly at Rhaenys' scrunched face and looked at Elia. “I will go back to Starfall,” she said, suddenly, her eyes full of an infinite sadness.  
“Ashara-“  
“I think I am with child.”  
“Why- did you not take moon tea?”  
“No, I was too ashamed to ask in the morning, and I foolishly thought Brandon would marry me,” she said, bitterly, “He –had me a half-dozen times and I am sure.” She began to sob uncontrollably, “I asked him in the morning if he would marry me and he laughed at me, Elia. He laughed in my face and said he would talk to his father, if-“  
Elia gulped her fury and hugged Ashara as she cried into her shoulder, her body quaking with tears. Elia had never seen Ashara cry like this before and it made a black fury rise in her throat against the Starks – those scheming, cunning wolves.  
Ashara’s eyes flamed in anger and she rose suddenly from her shoulder, red-eyed, “You must not spend your time feeling sorry for me. Make sure Rhaegar forgets the wolf bitch’s seductions, unless you want to be dishonored.”  
Elia sighed and looked out of the carriage window, “Rhaegar will never do anything of the sort, because I carry his child. Even if he did, the King would never allow him.”  
Ashara nodded and took a purple grape the colour of her eyes in the light filtering through the carriage and held it up, “To the King,” she said mockingly and slipped it in her mouth.  
“But if I do not bear him a son, I do not know what he will do,” she confessed softly.  
Ashara nodded, gulping the grape down. To distract themselves from their black moods, she proclaimed, “Life is short Elia. Let us leave all these men behind and run away to the Free Cities. In Lys, women are allowed to marry and live together. And they have male whores to give us pleasure when we want.”  
Elia nearly laughed, but held herself back because of Ashara’s desperate, earnest expression, “I could never leave my children behind. The King would never let them out of the Keep.” She would always be trapped like a fly in honey.  
“Mayhaps, you could ask to birth in Dorne? It is not unheard of for mothers to travel to their home place in their final months.”  
“And I could stay for your childbirth,” Elia murmured, thinking of idyllic time spent gazing at the bright stars from the Palestone Sword Tower. “I will try to speak to Rhaegar of it.”  
Rhaenys let out a cry, and said “Ma.” Sighing she let her suck on her breast, covering herself with a cloth carefully.  
“It is only me you know, you do not have to cover-“

The carriage door opened and Whent was outside, “Still alive ladies?” he asked. Ashara winked at Elia and began, “Whent, I am sorry your sister lost her title of Queen of Love and Beauty,” Elia looked up and was shocked to see that Rhaegar was well within earshot, speaking something to Ser Selmy, Ashara now nearly shouted, “She would have proved more worthy of the title than the wolf bitch.” Rhaegar turned sharply and saw Ashara and Elia. Strangely expressionless, he nodded briefly to Selmy and rode ahead, as Selmy glared at them disapprovingly.  
Whent bit the inside of his lip grinning, “Thank you, Lady Dayne. I'm sure of that too.”  
Elia moved Rhaenys’ head a little to secure her mouth as Ashara said, “Tell us Arthur, of Elia and I, who would you choose as Queen of Love and Beauty?”  
Rhaenys turned and spat some of the milk on Whent’s armour, as the three of them chuckled as Whent cursed. Arthur saw the opportunity to escape from the scenario, “Certainly Rhaenys,” he said, ruffling the child’s curls lovingly, and Arthur gazed his sister and cousin worriedly, asking, “Is everything alright?”  
“No,” Elia said in a small voice, and he squeezed her hand and kissed Ashara’s forehead, leaving with a curt, “I have to ride now, but I will speak to Rhaegar.”  
Ashara closed the carriage door and pulled out a cyvasse board from the back, “Do you think you can retain the title of Queen of wit?,” she asked Elia.  
“We will see.”

\-----------------------  
The past two months had been full of polite inquiries of her health by her husband, who never met her in private. She bristled at how none of his actions could ever be deemed wrong, for he was polite and considerate in the eyes of everyone, but truly cared not a coin for his own wife.  
I am exactly as I feared, she thought, a body bearing his babies  
Yet, the child in her belly made her desperate for his affections once more, like a young maiden in first love. She did not receive any loving glances or heated gazes, only polite nods and honeyed tones asking if she was well.  
She nearly dropped her flute when Rhaegar strode in, his boots muddy from yet another trip to Summerhall, and Elia’s mind slipped back to the night when she was carrying Rhaenys.  
He kneeled in front of her and pressed his hands to her belly, pressing a kiss onto it, and feeling it lovingly with his hands.  
Elia’s voice was full of bitterness and hatred, “What did the woods-witch say - your grace?”  
Rhaegar’s eyes looked up at her beneath white lashes, “That is none of your concern.”  
“She must have said something that has made you think of our unborn child,” she murmured, for Rhaegar’s eyes were still locked on her belly.  
“Did she prophesy that a dragon would lie with a wolf?” she whispered again.  
Rhaegar looked at her sharply, “Do you know why I crowned her?”  
She was silent, staring at his face, waiting for a reply.  
He lowered his eyes, and whispered in her ears, and she fought the urge to flinch away, “She was the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”  
Elia’s eyes widened in realization. A weirwood shield swinging on a tree, an unnaturally deep voice from a slight Knight in mismatched armour, King Aerys’ spittle flying as he asked his son to bring the Knight’s head.  
Rhaegar took off his doublet, “She was just and brave, and I thought there was more beauty in her character than any wilting lady, no matter how pretty of face.”  
“So you did not think of her beauty? She was very beautiful, your grace, with a comely figure.”  
Rhaegar sighed, and placed his hand on her belly, “If you give me this son, you have nothing to worry about, Elia.”  
“What if it is a daughter?” she hissed.  
“Then you will give me a son next time.”  
“What if I refuse?” she removed his hand from her belly.  
Rhaegar gritted his teeth, and moved to the table, “I will make you.”  
“A wonderful prince that was promised it would be, with his glorious beginnings in rape.”

Rhaegar kneeled before her and took her hands, “For our family’s sake, for Rhaenys and our unborn child, look past what I did, Elia. I did not think you would take it as such a great slight. I did not think you placed so much on a crown of roses. I was very much mistaken.”  
“Oh Rhaegar,” she whispered, using his name, “I could give you my life, but I will never let you take my honour.”  
Rhaegar nodded, his eyes full of melancholy and understanding. “I will remember that.” He kissed her belly again.  
“I will perhaps forgive this mistake if you let me go to Sunspear for birthing.”  
“The King will never allow it Elia, and you know that. He will need you in the Keep to keep me at his mercy.” Elia’s tears dripped on her cheeks.  
Rhaegar wiped them off with his cold fingers, “After he is gone,” he promised, a whisper in her ear, evoking a watery smile. Rhaegar could let anyone warm his bed or marry the woods-witch if he liked, if he let her go home again.  
That night they slept again as family, Rhaenys and their unborn child between them, their arms gripping both protectively with a strange desperation. Elia dreamt of a woman falling from a tower, again and again.

\-----------------------

Two weeks after Ashara was gone to keep her terrible secret from the prying eyes and ears of King’s Landing, with Rhaegar increasingly busy as his father troubled him incessantly to prevent his attempts at plotting with the lords, Elia’s mind would not be idle. It imagined Lyanna and Rhaegar in his tent over and over again, as Elia, Oberyn, Ashara and Ellaria had played endless games of cyvasse through the night to improve her spirits. Keen to not think of what was happening in her husband’s tent on the night of the tourney, Elia had won every game with stupendous concentration and rage, and Oberyn had proclaimed her the ‘Queen of Wit,’ crowning her with a book, as she laughed, drunk.  
Rhaegar’s pale lips meeting Lyanna’s red, silver hair brushing with black by the candlelight, black and white lashes mingling together. Purple eyes gazing deep into grey as he whispered, I love you and she whispered it back, their breaths mingling. Rhaegar making love to her gently, because he loved her, the silky white hair around his hardness meeting her raven gently as she moaned and he made those quiet, sweet noises in his throat.  
Elia threw her wine glass against the wall and it shattered like her dreams.

Even Ashara had known the touch of a loving man. The last time Rhaegar had fucked her, though he had been gentle, Elia was not fooled. She knew he had been soft and gentle to not hurt her, not because he loved her, but because he loved her body for the children it gave him and the prophecies it fulfilled – not like Arthur-  
\- Arthur.  
Elia slipped excitedly from the chair, and nearly fell, clutching her stomach in panic. She would have her night of ecstasy, the one night that would define all the happiness and love in her life tonight. Arthur would look at her and think her beautiful even when other men slid their eyes away toward Lyanna or Cersei or Ashara. She slipped into a sheer gown of orange silk, wrapping it with difficulty around her round belly, and wore long gold Rhoynish peacock earrings that made her elegant, graceful. She rimmed her eyes with charcoal to make them dark as sin, and rubbed flowers over her skin slowly, gazing at herself in the mirror.  
She opened the doors, “Whent,” she whispered, “I need to meet Arthur.”  
Whent was suspicious, “At this time of the night?”  
“He is not on guard tonight, is he? Get him.”  
“Shall I tell the prince on the way?”  
“I order you as princess of the realm to ask Arthur to come here, and to not inform the prince,” she commanded gulping, trying to mimic Rhaegar’s iron tones.  
Whent barked quietly, “You silly fool,” but stalked off.  
When they both returned a half-hour later, Arthur was clad in his Kingsguard armour, Dawn on hip, expression serious and a deep frown on his face. Why isn’t he happy?  
She turned to Whent, “I order you to guard Princess Rhaenys,” she whispered. 

Whent turned to Arthur briskly, “May you remember your vows, Ser Dayne.”  
“Aye, and may you remember yours.” Arthur shut the doors behind him and latched them.  
“What were you thinking, at this time of the night?”  
Elia bit her lip. Being with Arthur alone in her chamber felt surreal, like a dream. Suddenly, her words were stolen from her, a painful lump rising in her throat. If Arthur did not take the pain from her heart, she would fall, like Jenny in the song, from a tower….  
“Is there anything you have to say?” he asked again, as her eyes filled with tears and she twisted her hands together, speechless. Seducing him had seemed like a joyous game until he had stepped in. She had imagined that he would have sighed at her beauty and swept her in his arms.  
“I –I only wanted to see you.”  
Arthur sighed and sat on the cushioned chair, Rhaegar often reclined on, cradling his head in his hands, exhausted. Elia felt suddenly certain he did not want this ugly wife of his sworn prince disturbing his precious sleep.  
“If you are tired you may excuse yourself. You will need to sleep,” she said hurriedly, the pain rising in waves.  
“No Elia,” he sounded irritated, “Tell me what you called me for.”  
“I have nothing to say,” she choked, tears flowing, “I wanted to see you, but you evidently do not want that.”

Arthur strode to her and trapped her against the wall, slamming his hand on it and Elia mewled in fear. His expression softened when he saw her scared expression, shoulders hunched, that beautiful throat strained, eyes screwed shut.  
“That is why Rhaegar does not love you,” he said briefly. She looked at him, shocked, her body quaking with fright.  
“You seem like a scared woman,” he tilted her chin upward with his finger, “And Lyanna seems like a brave one. Rhaegar values bravery, honesty, justice, and beauty.” He moved away from her, “And you are a dishonest woman, calling me like this.”  
Her shoulders slumped and she looked up at him, wanting to fight. “Your wonderful Rhaegar turned me this way, bitter and dishonest-“  
“You were-“  
“He saw me and judged-“  
“Always this way, Elia.”  
Elia lost her strength and slumped to the floor, shocked. Arthur caught her shoulders to slow her descent, fearful for the unborn child. Rhaegar was not an evil man, and Elia had to understand, even if it was a bitter pill for her to swallow, Arthur thought.  
“All men have dreams but Rhaegar’s are the greatest. The wolf lady is everything he dreamed of,” he spoke as Elia gazed at him enthralled, “I saw it in his eyes, what most men call love.”  
Elia sniffled and rubbed her belly protectively, sobbing. Arthur kissed her forehead, eyes, cheeks and hovered above her lips.  
“But, he will forget soon,” he said, standing up, “Love rarely bears fruit.” He gave her a sad, knowing smile.  
“Do you love me?”  
Arthur shook his head, “I will never tell you.”  
“Then you love me,” she stood up with great effort.  
“You must not stress yourself,” he said viewing her belly with trepidation, “I do not want you in danger.”  
Elia gazed at him and Arthur was frightened because, in that moment, he saw Rhaegar’s infinite sadness mirrored within those obsidian eyes.  
Elia looked at him fondly, “I am older than you Arthur, do not forget.” Arthur smiled and kissed her forehead, holding her for a long while so she would forget all the hard truths he had said. But Elia could not forget, for they twisted into the flesh of her heart, wounding her.  
Elia pulled away, choking, “So I am weak, a coward, ugly, dishonest, unjust-“  
“But, you are gentle, kind, and caring, which Rhaegar does not know or possess because of his father, and your are wise while Rhaegar is clever, which is not enough,” he spoke quickly, he touched her hair, “And you have fire in you. I –I cannot explain.”  
“He stole my fire.”  
“He can never.”  
He kissed her, long and deep. Elia could not have ever remembered what his lips felt like, only that they were joined together, and that made her heart soar above the clouds.  
Yet, when he broke away, only, guilt and shame weighed on her chest, burning brighter and brighter, and Arthur stepped away shocked, apologizing to the air.  
Loud voices were audible outside. Whent was shouting, likely signaling to them, “Your Grace! Princess Elia said she is ill! Runny Guts! She will meet you in the morning!”  
Elia adjusted her gown and wiped away her tears, as a loud knock sounded on the door, with Whent shouting loudly, “The prince is here, Princess Elia!”

The doors flew open.  
Elia’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “Arthur, you may report to the king, though I do not think you are on guard duty tonight,” Rhaegar ordered in his smooth, dangerous voice.  
“Your Grace –“  
“You may leave.”  
“Elia-“  
“Princess Elia. Leave.”  
Elia still looked at the floor, her hands clenching and unclenching.  
“From tomorrow onward, Ser Darry will be your personal guard. He will report to me every evening.” Elia bit her lip until blood beaded, tears welling in her eyes. She was afraid she would cry her life out, little by little.  
“Whent, you are dismissed for the night.”  
She heard the sounds of the doors being shut and latched. She could not look at him, the anger in his eyes, that had gazed at Lyanna with love, or the furious set of his mouth, the same mouth Lyanna would have kissed. She was a coward.  
She looked up and only saw blobs of white, black, red, and finally, only black.


	21. A Bleeding Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Campanella by Paganini

When she woke, sweating, Rhaegar was seated on the table with papers, his quill slowly scratching on parchment. Elia looked at him, hunched, his face changing with his thoughts, long, tangled hair brushing the table as he wrote. She fell a dull ache in her stomach and head.

“Husband,” she croaked, finally.  
Rhaegar strode over to her and laid a hand on her belly, “You must not strain yourself like that again, at least for the child.”  
“Where is Rhaenys? How long have I been sleeping?”  
“Only for a day, you woke for a while after you were unconscious-“  
“I remember.”  
“Rhaenys is asleep.” Rhaegar sat next to her, tracing circles on her stomach. There was a brief silence.

“Why, Elia?” he whispered, finally.  
“I was lonely.”  
“Do your ladies in waiting not keep you company?”  
“Ashara is gone, none of them are real company, and you always keep Arthur away from me.”  
“Do you want me to ask the Red Viper to come?”  
“No, it was enough trouble between him and the Mad King the last time he came.”  
“Then, what do you want?”

Elia stared at him, too proud too ask, and Rhaegar understood. He touched her under the chin. “Granted,” he whispered.  
“I also want more time with Rhaenys.”  
He kissed her forehead. “Also granted.” She squeezed his hand, and he went back to his table.

\------------------

It was difficult to see Rhaegar without Rhaenys in the Keep. The child had already started to walk quite fast at a young age, and her father doted on her, either leading her by a finger, bending down and smiling at her antics, or holding her in his hands. Jon thought the little princess looked nothing like Rhaegar. 

In Jon’s experience, a mother always had the care of her child, but evidently Elia Martell was too sick to take care of her own child, leaving the prince of the Seven Kingdoms to the task. He had tried to talk Rhaegar out of this foolishness more than a couple of times, but he always brushed it away coolly.

It was an absurd sight- with the king retired in his chambers, Rhaegar was seated on the Iron throne, the babe twisting in his lap, as he tried to keep it away from the blades. Jaime Lannister stood by him, granted rare reprieve from the Mad King’s attentions. Jon felt the knight could be counted in their trusted circle in the Keep- Arthur, Whent, Rhaegar, himself, Lewyn, and Darry if Aerys burnt one more man in front of the boy while cackling to him that Tywin should be brought to kneel for imaginary treasons. 

Rhaegar came to him after, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw how utterly beautiful he looked in his dark blue doublet that brought out the purple in his eyes. Sometimes, when Rhaegar hugged him, he wanted to melt into his arms forever-

\- Rhaegar leaned into his ear, hair brushing against his shoulder, and he shivered, “My solar. I have received a letter from Arryn hinting at a tripartite alliance with the wolf and trout.”

Jon nodded, enthused. “Do not bring Darry and Lewyn, I do not trust them enough to hear this,” he murmured, barely audible, as they walked through the corridors.  
Jon enjoyed it when they were conspiring this way, heads close together, his lips tantalizingly just out of reach. It was a sweet agony. “Do you still think we should write to the Tyrells? Dorne may object.”

“No offense, my prince,” he said as they reached the solar, and Arthur opened the doors, “But Doran will not do anything even if a Dothraki Horde were to descend on Dorne and rape his women. He is a craven. Your marriage to a Martell was a deliberate attempt by the King to contain you.” Now that they were in the solar, he was speaking confidently.  
Rhaegar shrugged, “What is done has been done, and Elia is my wife now. That cannot be changed.”  
“Unless she does not give you a son.”  
Rhaegar turned away to face the window, “We will see.”  
“You cannot let Viserys succeed you, he is mad as his father.” Jon took an apple and bit it, “I think you will have to take the Stark girl for wife sooner or later given the princess’ delicate health.”  
Arthur spoke up, “My prince, if I may advise you on the matter, it will be better to wait before wishing for the worst. Until then, I believe we have an alliance to speak of?”  
Rhaegar showed them the letter.

\---------------------

5 months later,

They had fallen into a comfortable routine. Rhaegar would come to see her for a few minutes every day and once in a few nights, he would sleep with her and Rhaenys. Sometimes, they would speak about the day, other times, when one of them was troubled or sick, they would lie together in companiable silence, comforting each other with mere presence. They would sleep facing each other but untouching, arms wrapped tightly around Rhaenys to keep her from slipping away. There was a distance between them, but also companionship.

Not exciting, but enough, Elia thought, smiling.  
Rhaegar took care to keep his wife away from the terrors she heard from her servants- burnings and torture, as the Mad King looked on with delight, and then aroused by the wildfire, took the Queen savagely in her chamber.

Nymeria caught Rhaenys by the wrist, “Got you!” They were playing lock and key, and now Rhaenys was the key. The four Sand sisters ran around her in a whirlwind, and Rhaenys turned around and around until she fell, dizzy.

“Girls!” Elia scolded, heading to Rhaenys as she made a confused sound. Tyene came to see her, “Is she hurt?” she asked quietly, and Rhaenys touched her quickly screaming, “Key! Key!” Before Tyene could touch Rhaenys back, Elia hoisted her up and Rhaenys giggled and stuck her tongue out at the four Sand sisters from her vantage point.

“You sly snake!” Elia scolded, nuzzling Rhaenys affectionately and setting her on the bed, as Tyene chased the other three around and finally caught a slow Sarella who was too giggly, young and short. Obara, the eldest, remarkably long-limbed and authoritarian proclaimed an end to the game and proposed they play knights and maidens.

“Before that,” Ellaria said, huskily, streaming in luscious yellow silks, “Milk and bed.” They had only arrived that day, and Rhaenys was dizzy with excitement at their arrival, refusing to waste even a moment with Rhaegar or Elia when she had so much company. Elia grabbed Ty who was scratching her head fiercely, and looked into her scalp. “Has this one got lice?”

“Must be, she was running around with the captain’s daughter, who had a stock of it. Disgusting.” Ellaria settled on the chair and pulled Obara to drink from a cup. Seeing Obara drink, the other three promptly followed, and Tyene tried to slip out of Elia’s grasp. As if on cue, Sarella scratched her head and Rhaenys ran her hand through it.  
“Oh dear,” Elia sighed, as she examined Ty’s head, picking a louse out and killing it.  
“There is no point searching their heads now, they will doubtless get lice again on the return,” Ellaria sighed, holding Sarella’s nose to pour the milk. “Nymie, stop scratching there,” and Nym removed her hand from between her legs with an awkward smile as Obara guffawed. “You must scrub between the legs or properly when you bathe, or you will be scratching all day.” Obara fell over giggling and she received a slap in turn, and gave a hard pinch, until Nymeria screamed. Ellaria lugged Obara’s ear and hit Nymeria at the back of her head, scolding them for fighting quite harshly, and they retreated scared, but still squabbling quietly as the younger ones watched with a mix of fear and undisguised glee.  
Elia rubbed bitterseed oil on Tyene’s scalp.  
“Do you think lice can taste?” Nymeria asked, and Elia giggled, “Yes, of course they can,” plaiting Ty’s hair, which was very similar to Rhaegar’s. 

At night, after Ellaria left disgusted, when the four refused to leave Rhaenys, and Rhaenys refused to leave Elia, Elia left them to play on the floor for a while, catching her breath and resting, feeling her baby kick. Elia felt a rush of affection for Oberyn who had sent the little girls to cheer her for her birthing, taking great effort to pry them from their mothers. The girls were also overjoyed to be together, forgetting their mothers in each other’s company.

The children were suspiciously silent, with occasional stifled giggles, clearly indicating illicit activity. She gasped and then laughed when she saw Sarella covered in her powder, obscene amounts of berry essence smeared on her lips and charcoal rubbed around her eyes like a raccoon. 

“Girls! Come here to sleep,” she called. They ignored her, as Obara added “We are dressing Sarella up like a lady.” A quick blow on Obara’s back (she was the eldest after all) and dragging Nymeria by the hand, ensured immediate compliance, especially as she dropped the emotional, “Auntie is tired and with child.” Soon they were tumbled around her, carefully avoiding her belly, as Elia cleaned a still grinning Sarella’s face with a cloth. 

Obara thoughtfully placed her hand on her belly and soon all the other sisters followed, except Rhaenys.  
“Can you feel it kick?” Elia asked, and Obara nodded, eyes wide open in awe.  
“I can’t” Sarella complained.  
“Listen properly, stupid.”  
“Don’t call her stupid,” Elia said weakly, exhausted. She let them lift her gown and look at the belly as Sarella screamed, “Fat! Fat!”. They looked curiously at the distended skin and stretch marks, and then started kissing the belly, wishing the baby goodnight as Elia giggled at the ticklishness and innocent, wet kisses on her belly. Then she covered herself and told them a story, and they drifted into comfortable sleep, sprawled together.

She heard the door open gently, and looked up to see Rhaegar walking towards them. He looked at the mass of bodies on the bed.  
“No place for you tonight,” Elia said, biting her lip to keep herself from smiling. Rhaegar nodded seriously and looked at the sweet scene before him, sighing when he saw Rhaenys, “Wait till she comes to me after they are gone.”  
Elia smirked, asking, “Jealous?” and Rhaegar kissed a sleeping Rhaenys’s forehead and left with a sleepy smile at her.

She felt her water break in the middle of that night. She shouted breathlessly at nobody. It is too early.  
Obara raised her head, bleary-eyed.  
“Go get help! The baby is coming!”  
Obara turned wide-eyed and then ran to the door, screaming, “The baby is coming! The baby is coming!” as the other children woke. Rhaenys started crying and Nymeria rubbed her arm comfortingly.

She did not know what happened after that, for her breath was hitching and she felt the contractions begin. They shook her body, and she could remember Maester Pycelle begging her to push, again and again.  
She pushed and pushed but the baby would not come out. It was too comfortable inside. Soon she was drenched in sweat and she could see panicked and worried faces around her. Rhaegar had come in his robes and his eyes were full of fear in the dim light of the candles.  
‘A birthing bed is no place for a man’, she wanted to say. But, she only screamed.

She tried to lower her screams into grunts, for it was not good to scare the coming child, but there was so much pain that black and red rimmed the corner of her eyes, distorting her vision. Ellaria gripped her hand and she squeezed it and screamed again, as Ellaria hushed. It seemed to go on forever, and after forever, she saw Rhaegar cradling his head in his hands. 

He looked up and his sweaty face slowly became a blur. Pycelle tapped her cheek harshly and she snapped awake, irritated. “Do not let her lose consciousness,” he ordered and Ellaria’s grip on her hand became bone-breaking.  
Pycelle’s hands and arms were drenched in blood, but Rhaenys had also been born in blood. How many children could she bear this way?

Yet, it took far longer than Rhaenys. She struggled through the night, through daybreak and by afternoon, she was exhausted, thrusting weakly. Rhaegar kept kissing her forehead and telling her to try, but she wanted to swat him away.  
‘Leave me in peace, this is the end.’  
She was a child in the Water Gardens playing with Arthur and Ashara. She took a pebble in her hands and held it to Arthur’s eye. “It is the colour of your eyes,” she said.  
The child kicked inside her and she was suddenly awake. She gasped for breath as she gave it one last try, squeezing Rhaegar’s fingers to pulp and pushing with all the might left in her body. A baby’s cry was heard, and Rhaegar laughed, relieved.  
‘I gave him what he wanted.’  
The world began to blacken at the edges, as Ellaria tried to shake her, beat her and pinch her in vain. 

When she woke, Arthur was by her bedside and he nearly sobbed in relief, peering into her face. “Are you well? How do you feel? Do you need anything?” Ellaria quieted him, “Shush!” as she softly, hoarsely whispered “Water.”

Arthur rushed out of the chambers, and a servant was sent to tell the prince, as Ellaria stroked her forehead soothingly, explaining, “We nearly thought you were gone. You were asleep for four days, but the Dragon Prince was certain you would wake.”  
Elia took her hand in her hers and kissed it, “Thank you.”  
“Shut up, Elia.”  
Arthur came in and handed the water to Ellaria who made her sit up a little as she grunted in pain, and sloshed the water into her mouth.  
“There was so much blood, on the blankets in the floor-“  
Ellaria silenced him with a glare. 

Rhaegar strode into the chambers and Ellaria backed away from her. He sat next to Elia and kissed her forehead. “Arthur, go ask the nurse to bring our son.” Ellaria left with him.  
“Son?” she asked, a tired smile spreading her face. They smiled at each other, and Rhaegar gestured to the window. A red comet streaked across the sky, glorious as a newly forged blade, colouring the sky crimson. “An omen from the gods,” she whispered, in awe and trepidation.  
The baby was as much Rhaegar as Rhaenys was her, fair-haired and indigo-eyed. Elia nudged his nose gently with hers. She took the baby to her breast. Some primal instinct made him find her nipple and suckle. It hurt a little, because the baby did not know how to latch onto her breasts, but she made sure to not show any pain. Her entire lower body throbbed like a painful sore.  
“Shut the door, please,” she told Rhaegar, and he tore his eyes from them, standing up.  
“What shall we name him?” Elia asked.  
“Aegon,” Rhaegar said, “What better name for a king?”  
It was not like she had a say in the matter. He could name him Cersei for all she cared, and she would still love him.  
“Will you make a song for him?” she asked, smiling at a vision of him lying under the stars of Summerhall, composing a song for his son.  
“He has a song,” he replied “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” The madness roiled in the depths of his eyes again. Madness or greatness, Elia did not know. They were close companions.  
“There must be one more,” he whispered. “The dragon has three heads.” He went to the window seat, and picked up a harp, running his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Two of his fingers holding the harp were bandaged from her grip at the birthing bed. Jenny’s song filled the room, and Elia finally understood. 

Ice and Fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part is the scene Dany witnesses in the House of the Undying :)


	22. Dimming Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Bela Bartok's Piano Concerto No. 3  
> A longish chapter to quench ye thirst. Can Elia and Rhaegar mend things or is it too late?  
> Also some foreshadowing for the next fic I have planned, which will (hopefully) be less dark. I started it even before finishing this one XD

2 months later,  
Aegon was a healthy child, despite his early birth. She could not stop kissing him, for he was beautiful, fair as snow, more beautiful than Tyene. For we have been taught that fair is beautiful, she chided herself, biting her cheek. He would be clever and strong like his father, she hoped, and that would be of more use than his beauty. But still, when he smiled, she could not help herself-

\- Rhaegar’s eyes crinkled, “You are making that ridiculous sound again.”  
“My apologies,” she mimicked the two-note he often made unconsciously, the first note high and the other low. He bit his lip, trying to keep away a smile.  
“Why do you hold back your smiles?”  
Rhaegar replied with a smile that was utterly silly on his regal face, it was too big and full of teeth. His prominent canines made him look like a joyful predator.  
“That is why you are so somber! If you smiled, no one will take you seriously.” Elia giggled, moving Aegon to her breast. Rhaegar loved watching mother and child this way and he gently stroked Aegon’s head wordlessly.

The moon was a crescent hammock outside and the night air crisp, though slightly reeking of stink and piss. Rhaegar kissed Aegon’s forehead, never tired of watching him drink, his big eyes open-  
\- Whent kicked the door open and strode in with a wriggling Rhaenys. “I found this one in the kitchens again. Honestly, Rhaegar, she needs a Kingsguard for herself.” Rhaenys stuck her tongue out at him, “The Sand Snakes spoilt her good.”  
Elia sighed at the memory of the Sand Snakes, who had been quickly whisked away within a month to stop tiring – nay exhausting her. 

Rhaenys rolled on the bed, her fingers sticky with pie.  
“Rhae, if you roll on the bed so, it will become sticky and the ants will bite you at night!”  
Rhaenys stuck her tongue out at her and Elia tried to grab her, “Who taught you stick out your tongue? Tyene? I will cut off your tongue next time you stick it at me. What?” she said looking at a shocked Rhaegar, “There is no greater boon to a child than a well-intentioned beating.”  
Rhaenys crawled into her father’s arms, as though scared and grieved, milking the opportunity. Rhaegar said, “I will cut out your to tongue if you talk to her that way again.”  
“Oh really? You want her to become like Viserys?” Elia hissed, “Do not intervene in these women’s matters. And you should be a mummer, you.” Rhaenys turned to her from Rhaegar’s shoulder and stuck out her tongue again.  
“You will have to descend from his shoulder sometime soon, then we can see.”  
Rhaenys made a fake whimper, and Rhaegar pulled her onto his lap, kissing her on the lips. Rhaenys smiled up at him. It was all hugely unfair- Rhaegar spoilt her rotten and got her affection, while Elia did all the hard work.  
Elia huffed and looked down at Aegon, “There little boy, Aego-go-go.” She rubbed his nose, and he smiled around her nipple. She switched him to her other breast, “When you can speak, you will open your mouth and call Rhaenys bad, bad girl.”  
“I am not a bad girl!” Rhaenys screamed.  
“Then you will wash your hands in the basin, or an Other will come and take you, because you are being a bad girl.”  
Rhaenys immediately got down from her father’s lap and scurried to the basin, as he watched amused.  
“She is enormously frightened of Others.”  
“I hope, not for long.”  
Aegon took his mouth away from her breast and yawned. “Yes, bed-time my sweet.” She rocked him gently on her lap.

Rhaenys lay next to her and pulled his cheeks, let him grip her finger and then cooed him a lullaby Elia often sang.  
“She has a good voice,” Elia observed to Rhaegar.  
“I want a story,” Rhaenys said, “Since my cousins left, you have not told me any stories.”  
“Because I had a larger audience. I am very tired Rhaenys, do not bother me.”  
“I will tell you a story,” Rhaegar replied, moving over to the other side of the bed and lying down.  
Elia looked at his now familiar face on the other side of Rhaenys. It was a wonder how time and closeness could make one regard a person with love. Even a year ago, she would have scoffed if someone had told her she would grow to love Rhaegar as much as Arthur or Ashara or Oberyn, yet he had become knitted into her life, the queer, cold Dragon prince, the silly father who loved his children and perhaps loved her, as the faces of her childhood grew distant…

“It is a story from far north, when there was a winter that reigned for years and years. It would not stop.” Rhaenys looked into her father’s eyes, absorbed and excited that she had asked for a story from her mother and had gotten something even better.  
“It was a cold you could not imagine. Women shivered and children died everyday.” Rhaenys stared at him open-mouthed, scared, as Elia turned her back to them to face the window, listening as she patted Aegon in the crib.  
“Yet the snowstorms continued, as the commoners’ blood became ice. And then from the North, beyond the Wall, came the Others.” Rhaenys’s eyes grew impossibly wide. Rhaegar moved closer to her and cupped her face, “Don’t worry Rhaenys, this happened very long ago. The Others will not come for a while, but even if they do, you must not be afraid of them, understand?” Rhaenys breathed, nodding. “Father will never let anyone harm you.”  
Rhaenys snuggled into his arms and his voice grew softer, slightly hoarse from a day’s worth of passing judgments. “Rhaegar,” Elia said sleepily, “do not scare her.”  
Rhaegar nudged Rhaenys’s nose, “Dragons are never scared. Isn’t that so, Rhaenys?” he asked her, and she nodded briskly, “Yes, father.”  
“Back to our story. So, when icy winds blew across the vast North of the realm – I will take you there when you are older, it is a harsh beauty that will take your breath away – there was a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. In those days, there were seven kingdoms in the Realm, and Brandon Stark was king of the north.”  
“Stark,” Elia breathed, a fist clenching around her heart. Milk bubbled from Aegon’s lips in agreement.  
“One night when the Lord Commander was riding beyond the wall– remember I told you about the wall?”  
Rhaenys sat on her knees and bounced on the bed, “It’s a big, icy wall. So tall and sheer – sheer, that its – one big, big block of ice. And it glimmers and weeps in the summer and in the winter its like stone, keeping the bad men – the wildlings and the –the –Oth-Others out! It-“  
“Rhaenys!” Elia scolded, pulling her shift to make her settle down, turning. She brought Aegon around between them, as Rhaegar helped pull her down.  
“Yes, that’s right,” he pulled Aegon close to his chest and laid a finger on the baby’s little nose, as Rhaenys bristled with jealousy. She is so much like me, Elia thought worriedly, too trusting and too much in earnest.  
He spoke to Aegon now, “The Lord Commander had the habit of riding beyond the wall, alone, for some peace of mind. One night, he heard a woman’s wail of distress. He rode into the woods, intent on saving her. He found a corpse that rose from the dead.”  
“A wight,” Rhaenys murmured.  
“Which doesn’t exist,” Elia gently reminded. She was now regretting not immediately pitching into tales of Nymeria as soon as Rhaenys had asked for it.  
Rhaegar ignored them, continuing to talk to Aegon, who was meeting his father’s melancholic gaze with his characteristic boldness. He was a bold baby, who barely ever cried, but not melancholic like his father. He stared into your eyes fearlessly and smiled softly when happy, whimpering with distaste when unhappy. He is the image of a little prince, Elia thought proudly.  
“The corpse was a girl of fourteen or fifteen, and he felt nothing but sadness when he killed her in a second death after fighting for over half-an hour. He looked around to see what had made such a fate befall a young peasant girl and saw a figure in the tall pine trees. She was ice, shimmering in the white snow, eyes a star-like blue, her whole body reflecting light like glass, blinding. He thought she was beautiful, and she was.”  
“What colour was her hair?” Rhaenys asked and Elia sighed.  
“White.”  
“Like you?”  
Rhaegar looked at Aegon, ignoring her, “He walked toward her, enamored-“  
“Was he in love with her?”  
“Rhaenys-“  
“Yes, he was in love.”  
Elia sighed shifting. He was filling her head with nonsense.  
“He walked toward her and touched her skin – it was freezing cold. She was even more beautiful up close, perfect. Her voice was like ice – chipping. Sharp and beautiful to the ears. That night, he lay with her.”  
Rhaenys’ head sunk into the pillow. “Lay?”  
“Made love to her,” Rhaegar explained to Aegon, stroking his nose, with a finger, as Elia watched her husband carefully. “And she took his soul.”  
Rhaenys gasped.  
“She took his soul, and he gave her his seed. He loved her so much, he gave it away, and he became a shell of himself – for who are you when you lose your soul? He married her and she became the Night Queen, and he the Night King.”  
Aegon whimpered. “They lorded over the Night’s Watch together, the rulers of the Night. The made the men of the Night’s Watch their servants with sorcery and spells. Every fortnight, one sworn brother would be sacrificed to the Others, and babies from the nearby villages would vanish.” Rhaenys clutched at the bed-sheets tightly. “Wights roamed the land freely, killing, stealing, adding more to their ranks. The Night King only listened to his queen and he grew more and more lifeless with every passing day, letting the Queen drink his life from him.”  
“What happened next?”  
The magic was gone from Rhaegar’s voice and the tension that gripped the room subsided as he lay back in his pillow looking at the ceiling casually, “The Night Queen and King were defeated in battle, led by a great hero Brandon the Builder, with the help of Joramun – King beyond the Wall. Brandon killed the Night Queen himself and freed the Night’s Watch.”  
“Brandon – Stark,” Elia said slowly.  
Rhaegar nodded, as Rhaenys still gazed at him lovingly. He gathered Aegon in his arms and stood up. He addressed Elia, who was looking at him with suspicious and angry eyes, carefully, “I’ll bring him back if he needs milk.”  
She nodded and pulled Rhaenys down, scolding her to sleep, refusing to sing. 

That night, Rhaegar came back to his wife’s chambers and saw mother and daughter sleeping, a sight so peaceful and sacred he did not wish to disturb it. He pushed the sheet over Elia’s shoulder from where it had slipped down and left quietly, deciding no harm would come to Aegon if he drank from a wet nurse for a night. 

\---------------------  
Rhaegar came to her alone three moons after his story. He was in a black mood, flinging his boots savagely by the table and slumping into the chair.  
“What is the matter?” Elia asked, realizing he was back from yet another a Summerhall visit.  
He worked his jaw as if considering a response and then changed his mind, speaking in barely controlled tones.  
“I requested the King, pleaded with the King for you to leave the Red Keep. He is adamant. Elia,” he moved closer to her, whispering fiercely, “I cannot rebel or even lift a finger unless I move you and our children away from my father’s mercy.”  
“Perhaps, we could leave secretively –“  
“And, if you’re caught? I cannot risk it,” he dragged his palms over his face.  
She touched his arm gently, “What did the woods witch say?”  
“What woods witch?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.  
“The woods witch who told Jahaerys, that a dragon would hatch at Summerhall? The woods witch whose prophecy burnt your whole family except for your parents to the ashes on the day you were hatched? Salt and smoke.” She traced the lines of his face gently. “Prophecy will happen. The future cannot be changed. It is better to live it without knowing it.” Rhaegar stalked to the window, and then turned aback aggrieved.  
“That is not of your concern. You will not speak of it.” Elia sighed, tired, shaking her head with a sarcastic, caustic smile, that smarted his pride.  
“Are you healed?” he asked briskly.  
She looked into his eyes bravely for a long while. She was no longer the shy, new bride, doing as he bid. They were close enough, she had thought he loved her, and yet… her heart broke and her eyes filled with tears.  
Rhaegar realized his mistake a little late. He hastily cupped her face, brushing her jaws with his thumbs. “My apologies, if I have offended you.”  
“Oh Rhaegar, breaking me has been your sole endeavor since you put your cloak over my shoulders. Someday you’ll break me to pieces and, and-“  
He embraced her, his warm heartbeat thudding in her ears, “I will never do that. I love you.” The words had slipped out on their own accord, but he felt the deep, sharp breath she drew, her shoulders tensing up. She removed her face from his shoulders to look into his eyes, their eyelashes meeting, lips brushing, noses pressed together, and for the first time she felt what she had felt with Arthur, the feeling of floating among the clouds, pure bliss. The deep indigo she had come to love, looking at her with an affection and purity that had never been there before.  
That night they became lovers – new, starting afresh. Every night from then on, lips met softly. There were soft laughs and whispered jokes. Gentle teasing and talking till they were hoarse. Rhaegar told her of his childhood, that curious lonely affair, and Elia of the childhood she had never wanted to escape and still could not escape as Rhaegar listened enviously. They talked about their worries and joys, likes and dislikes though there were secrets, for there always are, that both guarded carefully. Sometime in the middle, Aegon was brought in to breastfeed, and Rhaegar watched them, strumming a new song on his harp. She tried to play her flute together with him for the first time, and Rhaenys had come in then, and danced wildly to a fast tune they made up and played together disjointedly. They tried to teach Rhaenys to play the harp, and found her lacking in patience, though she was an prodigious cyvasse player, even defeating Rhaegar once or twice, though one of the Dornish ladies-in-waiting remarked once well within his earshot that he was a sorry excuse for a cyvasse player.

Elia felt her life swell around her with new happiness, the tides engulfing her. Night time was a sweet peace, with warm, small bodies of children pressing into her, the arrival of Oberyn bringing the additional joy of a now not so little Arianne. When she had her fill of innocent pleasures there was Rhaegar for stolen kisses in her chambers, brief pecks on her face and lips that sent jolts through her body, glimpses of his ever broadening chest when he unpeeled his doublet for his night robe, and the unintentional brushes of their skins when they went around their simple, domestic life. Yet, there was a tension in the air, tight as a bow string, as though life was mocking her, telling her to have her fill before the misery and pain came.

The dragon must have three heads.  
Rhaegar could scarce find Elia alone at night but he had to. One night, he arranged for Rhaenys, Aegon, and Arianne to be sent away, with great difficulty, and slipped into her chambers as she was sleeping.  
He could not bring himself to wake her and was surprised by the change in himself. She was peaceful, asleep, vulnerable, her beautiful neck curled in an infinite tiny folds, a small frown on her face. He watched her dream for a long while, her eyebrows creasing and uncreasing, whispering through her lips. She lifted her head and her neck strained against the pillows-

\- he touched her shoulder and kissed it, and she woke suddenly, clutching at his head.  
“Rhae-Rhaegar?” she whispered, “When did you come in?” she shifted. “Where is Rhae? Where is the baby? Where – where is everybody.”  
He rubbed the back of his neck and gazed into her eyes unashamedly. She realized what he was there for and nodded briskly, beginning to slip out of her night-gown.  
“Elia,” he said softly, and she stilled, looking at him carefully. He crawled between the sheets and held her down. “Go to sleep. What were you dreaming about?”  
She turned, working at the laces on her gown. “Nothing. I’ll give you your three dragons and then you’ll leave me in peace.”  
He looked into her onyx eyes for a long time. He stroked her cheek with a finger, “Push any such fantasies out of your head,” he said softly, teasingly.  
Elia’s gaze became cool, curious. “I will not probably survive this time, so you can marry Lyanna Stark,” she retorted. She was in a black mood from being woken in the night so.  
Rhaegar leaned his head away from her. She scoffed. “Please Rhaegar, we are too old for hiding from each other. I know that you love the wolf maiden.” It was time to break the dreams of him building around her before they could hurt her.  
Rhaegar’s violet eyes hardened into rough-cut gems, his shield up. “That-“  
“- is none of my concern? Gods Rhaegar, if you say that one more time, I will jump out of the window.”  
“Stop it.” She cocked her head quizzically, sinking it against the pillow. “If you think that will make me pity you, you are mistaken – talking about your death all the fucking time.”  
“I don’t need your pity, Rhaegar.”  
“Your Grace. You will call me ‘your grace’.”  
“Your grace,” she whispered, the tears pooling at the edges of her life, her teeth gritting as she spoke, “I want to speak my heart, no matter how painful it is to us.”  
“Speak.”  
“All I hoped for was a loving husband and a good home. Is that too much?”  
“From the experience of my childhood, it is too much,” Rhaegar whispered.  
“I am sorry,” she touched his lips with hers.  
“Elia,” he whispered against her lips, slightly drowsy from the wine and the late hour, “Tonight, let us not think. I am tired of thinking. My head hurts.”

He kissed his throat, gently biting it as he moved down, to her bony chest, carefully avoiding her breasts, Aegon’s sacred territory. He moved her nightgown away and she slipped out of her small-clothes. He lay on her and fucked her carefully to not disturb the stitches. Yet, she seemed to be in more pain than usual, whispering incoherently in Rhoynish.  
“Does it hurt too much?” Rhaegar asked in the middle, halfway inside her.  
“I – never – thought – you – would – ask me – that question,” she panted, eyes holding a strange, alien misery.  
It was then that Rhaegar knew they were truly gone. There was no coming back. The wedding, their first time, their cruelty to one another had tainted and embittered them until they could do nothing but barb each other, branding wounds into one another’s hearts. He thought of that one night two weeks ago when he’d come back from Summerhall, the false whispers and jokes and how they had pretended as thought there was a pure affection between them, as though they had chosen each other, as though Rhaegar would not leave her in a blink if she could bear him no more children, for his true love, the ice queen, the woman destined for him who waited north. Elia was but a pebble in history, washed aside to be collected, like those smooth round ones she had from Saltshore but Rhaegar and Lyanna were the rivers and seas, changing paths, lives, the realm, quenching each other.

He fucked her harsher, no longer taking meticulous care and she whimpered, “Oh, Rhaegar, please, slower.”  
“Your Grace, you will call me ‘your grace’,” he barked in anger.  
“Please, please, please.” It hurt him to hear her cry and whimper and moan in obvious pain, but he could not stop himself. He wanted to hurt her and hurt himself. He wanted her to be barren so he could love the wolf maiden. He wanted, he wanted-  
\- he came in her, and pulled out of her, and there was blood on the mattress.  
He stepped off the bed and watched her eyes, rolled back, the whites showing. “I will call the maester.”

“No.” she barked forcefully. She covered the stains quickly with the sheets as there was a knock on the door. Rhaegar dressed as Aegon was brought in, and Elia fed him from her breasts, the tears still on her cheeks, chest still heaving from the burning and searing pain. Rhaegar wanted to take Elia in his arms and comfort her, apologise to her until time ended, tell her they must be apart or they would destroy each other, and tell her that she deserved better. Yet, he let the pain fester in his chest as he walked out, deciding to batter his broiling anger out in the yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Rhaegar and Lyanna. Test week up, so it may take time to upload, especially since I have a million different ideas and don't know what to write!  
> Comments/feedback please! They make my day :)


	23. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Kreisler's tambourin chinois  
> Because everything is happy, but hurried.   
> Rhaegar and Lyanna run away. A fluffy chapter after all the heavy angst that this fic has been storming up. Also, for the RL shippers. :)

5 months later,

Lyanna rode into the Inn at the crossroads, laughing uncontrollably, with Brandon following close behind. A huge partridge hung from Brandon’s horse, and he stopped examining if it was male only when the stable-boy stepped forth to collect their horses. Lyanna gave Nymeria away with a kiss on her mane and two pats on the head.

“What do you think Ned's doing now?” Brandon whispered conspiratorially. It was a question they oft asked each other to jape about, because well, Ned was Ned. They took their drenched cloaks off and Lyanna attempted to wring the water out of her curly hair.  
She sniggered, “Playing dice with Old Nan.” Brandon smirked back and slumped into a seat in the centre, ordering ale and handing the partridge over to a server boy to cook.  
“I always thought Ned had a thing for Old Nan, you know,” Lyanna whispered conspiratorially, wicked smile on her face.  
“We shouldn’t have left them together, don’t you think?” He took a large swig of his ale, and Lyanna did the same, spilling some over herself.  
“No worries, knowing them, they're probably taking a moonlit walk in the godswood now,” Lyanna sang like a bard.  
Brandon sniggered, snorting up ale, “You sounded just like Rhaegar Tagaryen now.” Lyanna took a huge gulp of the ale to hide her expression. Rhaegar Tagaryen’s face was fading from her mind now, and hours of concentrating to recover it only gave her headaches. Time flew. In one month, she would be another man’s wife.

Brandon’s face had turned an unsavoury grey as he looked at something beyond Lyanna’s shoulder. Lyanna had not noticed the sudden commotion behind her, lost in her slight reverie. She turned quickly and saw him.  
He was standing sideways so she could see his strong, straight nose and silky hair, now almost waist-length. Even in sparse riding wear he looked majestic and Lyanna felt her heart lurch out of her throat. Two Kingsguard surrounded him, and the dark, thickly bearded one - Oswell Whent- caught her eye and whispered something to Rhaegar. Ser Dayne met her eyes with his light violet ones, and seemed startled. 

Rhaegar had noticed she was here. She dimly registered that she was in riding clothes, her tunic slightly drenched in ale, armpits stained with sweat, hair a disheveled mess tied up in a bun, face caked slightly with dirt. Rhaegar looked much the same, she noted with a smile, yet he was regal even when rain-drenched. They gazed into each other’s eyes, strangely afraid and elated at the same time. 

Rhaegar took her hand gently in his long fingers. They felt warm in the cold rainy night, and they were moist, drenched in raindrops. “My lady,” he whispered, never breaking his eyes away from her, pressing a soft kiss to her hand, closing his eyes as he did so. Brandon tightened his grip to her shoulder until it was near painful and Lyanna fought the urge to bat him away.

“Rhaegar,” she whispered back, and he smiled sadly at her. He turned slightly to the door of the inn, as they ignored the dozens of eyes boring into them and reading every gesture. “The rains appear to have stopped. May we step outside?”  
Brandon grunted, “We have ale and hot partridge to finish.”  
Rhaegar replied, “My apologies, Lord Stark, you may return to your meals,” his voice was clipped and commanding, and he still held Lyanna’s hand lightly in his warm palm.  
Brandon eyed their palms, “Fuck you. My sister is not going anywhere with you,” he pulled her arm harshly.  
“Brandon, stop-“  
At Rhaegar’s glance, Ser Whent lay an armoured arm on Brandon and pushed him away with force, barking, “This is the prince of the seven kingdoms you're addressing, boy. Do as he commands.”  
Brandon reached for his sword but Lyanna planted herself firmly in front of Whent.  
“Brandon,” she pleaded.  
Brandon paused, breathing hard, staring between the two of them, “Aye Lya, but I'm coming with you then. If you're decent, you won't have a problem with that,” Brandon challenged Rhaegar.  
“I can assure you of decency of conduct, Stark.”

The small party left the warm inn into the colder night air. Rhaegar didn't even glance at her, though she flicked her eyes at him several times, drinking in his face like a thirsty wolf. Her hands looked ungainly, large and calloused in his smooth graceful fingers.  
Rhaegar turned to face her once they were near the river. A light drizzle had begun again, and the previous bout of rain had swelled the river- though it did not rush past, it hit the rocks with an oddly satisfying amount of force.  
“Lyanna,” Rhaegar whispered. Brandon stood watching them at a distance, arms crossed, sword hanging from his waist, jaw set in a frown. Ser Dayne and Ser Whent lounged near a tree, Ser Whent scratching.  
“Lyanna,” he whispered again in his sweet sweet voice, and she turned to face him finally, a painful lump in her throat. His features seemed to melt together and her eyes fluttered in panic. She crossed her arms, trying to hide her anxiety.  
“I could not stop thinking about you,” the tide rose higher in her chest. He held her hands in both of his. “How are you?”  
“W-well,” she stammered. “I - could not think of – about anything but you. Too. Ub-either.” She cringed at how childish her voice sounded. Rhaegar grinned widely at her, and she laughed at how silly his face looked, stretched like an amused wildcat, his canines protruding over his lips. This was the first time she had seen him smile and she wanted to make him do it all the time. She wanted to take him away and drain all of the sadness from his eyes.  
“Let’s run away,” she breathed. She saw the knob in his throat bob at that, and when she met his eyes again, they were hooded and full of emotion. “Let’s go away from everyone. They are going to marry me to Robert Baratheon. I mean, I agreed, but I didn’t have a choice-“  
“I know,” he whispered, “I know what its like to not have a choice.” His eyes became those pools of sadness again, and she wanted to kiss his nose until they brightened again. He gathered her hands in his and excitement shone in his eyes. “We could run away tonight. I will pretend to head away from the inn, but come back and take you-“  
Lyanna’s eyes were wide with delight too. “Yes, lets! I could be your queen.” This was what she had wanted ever since she had seen him at the feast table. What she had dared to hope for from when she first knew the colour of his eyes and the sound of his voice, flowing like honeyed wine through her veins. From when he had placed that wreath of her favourite blue winter roses in her lap with his eyes pouring out his love to her.  
Rhaegar nodded, though he seemed sadder somehow, “Make sure Brandon agrees to stay. I'll take care of everything else.” They were whispering so her brother wouldn't hear.  
“When will you come? How will I leave? How do we get Nym-“  
He shushed him with a single finger to her lips and she saw Brandon tense out of the corner of her eye. “I'll come for you Lyanna.”  
He escorted her arm in arm and handed her over to Brandon. He met Brandon’s glowering stare with a nod. “Thank you. You're a good brother.”  
Brandon grunted in reply and and Rhaegar strode away to his Kingsguard, with a final, meaningful glance at Lyanna.

\------------

Brandon found a woman and jug of ale and was soon snoring peacefully in his bed, both gathered in arms. Lyanna lay in her sparse room, wide awake, thinking. Her brother had mercilessly questioned her about what Rhaegar and she had talked about and had only calmed after numerous false reassurances. After that it was only a matter of talking to Masha Heddle who was kind enough to arrange for a whore for Brandon.  
She heard a terse knock on the window, and saw three figures waiting for her on horses, one in the centre with long white hair fluttering under his helm. Grinning widely, ignoring Ned’s warning voice which she seemed to have, sadly, internalized, and a strange anxiety gripping her heart, she opened the window and jumped down fearlessly into Rhaegar’s arms, or so she thought. She landed halfway between Ser Dayne and Ser Whent, hard on her arse, worsened by Ser Dayne’s sudden and desperate grabbing of her hand in the last moment which only pulled her shoulder.  
“Fuck,” she swore and Rhaegar was crouched behind her.  
“Are you alright, Lyanna?” he asked, a slight smirk playing on his lips. She could not help but smile back at him through her pain and as he helped him onto his horse, so she was in front of him, she tried to be elegant and refined around the Prince to make up for her earlier awkwardness.  
“Can he take two people? The horse?” Lyanna asked concernedly in her best lady voice.  
“You're light as feather,” Whent said dismissively as they began to ride fast.  
“No I’m not!” she roared into the wind as Rhaegar launched them into full speed, laughing softly. His horse was a golden Sand Steed, fast as sin, even faster than Nymeria. She suddenly felt a stab of guilt for leaving Nymeria behind.  
But who was she to complain? Her dream prince’s arms were about her protectively holding her onto the horse, as she clutched the horse’s neck to not fall off. She turned back to look at him, to make sure he was still there. His beautiful long hair was flowing behind him in silk threads, and his eyes were wide and rough, uncut gems of sapphire. Only they were tinged purple- indigo. She leaned toward him, wanting to fall into them, and he kissed her. They kissed for a long time on the horse, Rhaegar holding the reins with one hand, his other arm holding her against his chest, until her neck ached.  
When she pulled away and turned forward again, her eyes rolling to the back of her head from the kiss, she realized that Whent and Dayne had ridden off left, and Rhaegar hastily pulled his reins away toward them, cursing softly, ignoring Whent’s dry jape as they pulled past them.  
She leaned back into Rhaegar’s chest. “Where are we going?” she asked.  
He thought for a long time, “Somewhere,” he whispered, biting the inside of his lip, “Why does it matter?”  
“It doesn't," she grinned at him, and he smiled his silly smile, dazed, "What were you doing at the inn?” she asked, curious.  
“Searching for you,” he replied honestly. That was sweet, so she kissed him again.

\---------

Lyanna thought she might break if she spent even a moment away from Rhaegar. She would break into tiny shards like those icicles Ben and she had found in the cave near the Wall as children. She wondered what Ben was doing and if he could join them. It would be a good deal of fun. But she wanted Rhaegar too, and she couldn’t play with Ben when Rhaegar was around-  
\- Rhaegar touched her hair gently. He was showing her how to play his harp, but she was hopeless, fumbling through the notes of the simple tune he was teaching her. Rhaegar was happy sitting in the woods, running his hands over hers as he taught her, biting his cheek to stop himself from smiling at her exasperation and unladylike curses. 

She was biting her red as cherries lower lip in concentration, turning it redder, the hard crease he loved between her eyebrows deepening, eyes glaring at the harp in concentration, though he told her to feel her way through, as she tried again, and this time succeeded in producing a jerky version of the tune. Rhaegar rewarded her with a kiss, combing his fingers through her hair. He wanted her more than anything in the world – his ice princess. But, she was only a child. A cold stab of guilt shot through Rhaegar, when he thought of Rhaenys and Aegon and – no he would not think of her - now in the Red Keep. He drank more of the wine to keep his troubled thoughts at bay.  
She looked up at him suddenly, “After we go south to Dorne, can we turn back to Winterfell?”  
“After things are settled, my sweet.”  
She began talking in a huge, worried rush. “I am just scared if Ben is lonely. I mean – he will manage alone, but he gets lonely sometimes and Ned never plays with him, he’s too old and a git. He’s probably eating right now, Ben. Father’s probably in his study with Ned now after dinner. Ben takes his dinner late. I wonder if Bran remembered to take Nymeria with him. I wonder if Bran did manage to get back-“  
Rhaegar cupped her cheek, the guilt tipping into his throat. “We can turn back to Winterfell now, Lyanna, and I can leave you safely at home.” This was the third time today she had mentioned Brandon Stark and the hundredth time she had mentioned the goddamned horse. He had promised to buy her a Sand Steed, but she was adamant about her horse. Three days into their journey, and it already felt like this dream was unravelling.  
Lyanna shook her head smiling, “I’m safe with you, Rhaegar,” and leaned into his hand, for she loved how he said her name. Her whole name, every time, savouring each syllable.  
He sighed and turned, seeing the distant Tower of Joy that Arthur had assured was a safe refuge.  
“It seems so close,” Lyanna whispered.  
“A night’s ride,” Rhaegar whispered back, hoisting himself onto his Steed and pulling her up in front.  
Whent groaned, “Honestly, when do we break for the night? I can scarce walk. The sores on my arse-”  
Arthur cut in, in his curt manner, “One more night and we should be there. If our lady can manage.”  
Lyanna huffed, “Of course I can.” She grabbed the reins from Rhaegar, who gripped her waist, surprised. “I am Princess Nymeria,” she proclaimed, in a hoarse shout, “and I ride to defend the kingdom!” Rhaegar laughed in response and smiled into her hair as she raced ahead, and Whent followed, cursing.  
Arthur could not believe for one moment that the prince loved this child. It was the goddamn prophecy that Rhaegar obsessed about, no doubt, that was speaking, though he felt a mild distaste pounding at the walls of his mind at what his dear friend was doing. No good would come of it and he wondered how Elia was. He expected news for them in the Tower of Joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a few changes in my writing to make the flow easier, and cut down on hyperboles and pretentious writing.  
> Comments/feedback will be greatly appreciated!! Thanks for all the love.  
> Status- 26th feb: Also, I'm at a conference/event this week (and some assignment deadlines) so updating may happen tomorrow or day after, or if I'm not satisfied with the chapter yet, next week.  
> So, so sorry to keep you waiting but real life catches up sometimes :/


	24. Pure madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids, a burning and a plot twist ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 4  
> An Elia chapter! With some children's antics, a happy Aerys and - just wait for the end!!

Viserys was reading through the scroll, moving his lips wordlessly as he ran his finger under the words.  
“Viserys, read aloud for me, and learn to not follow with your fingers. You’ll ruin the parchment,” Elia advised. Ser Darry lounged nearby on the chair watching, picking his teeth. The king was increasingly scatter-brained and had scarce noticed her regular visits to Viserys’ chambers.  
Viserys complied without argument,  
“Plants make their own food. They make the food in their leaves,” he looked up at her, “Plants can cook?”  
Elia sighed, setting down her sewing. Arianne laughed, loud and cruel, “You’re so stupid Viserys! Of course they can’t!” Rhaenys looked up, interested.  
Elia lugged Arianne’s ear without even a sideward glance at her. “Ow!”  
“Apologise to the Prince!” she chided.  
“Ow! No!” A savage twist brought out a hasty apology, and a solemn murmur of thanks from Viserys that reminded her of Rhaegar. She would not think of him now.  
“I want to play,” Viserys said plaintively.  
“Fine,” Elia said, deciding to use the time to come up with an explanation. Before the words were out of her mouth, Viserys and Arianne were on the floor with Rhaenys. Rhaenys was building a castle with flour, butter, strawberries and honey from the kitchens, eating half of it and making a right mess.  
“See you mix the water in like this,” she said in her high, childish voice. As Viserys and Arianne watched as she made sticky dough and added a lot of honey. Then she ate some of it and Viserys made a face.  
“This is cooking,” Arianne said self-importantly, “Boys can’t do it.”  
“Ari-,” she began but caught Darry grinning and he quickly sobered.  
Arianne moved to touch the flour, but Rhaenys batted her away. “This is mine,” she said authoritatively. Elia watched, curious. “I will let you try on my amethyst earrings,” Arianne offered.  
“Fine,” Rhaenys declared, and Arianne began to gather some flour in her hands. Viserys made a beeline for the honey, but was stopped by Rhaenys.  
“I’ll let you play with my sword,” he promised Rhaenys.  
Elia raised her eyebrows, impressed by her daughter’s skills. Here was a little Doran sitting before her, just as shrewd and calculating.  
With Rhaenys’ permission Viserys took a handful of honey and put it in his mouth. “I just eat honey,” licking his fingers.  
Arianne said, “Yuck Viserys!”  
“What?”  
“Yucky, you are icky icky.”  
“Nysa is also eating-“ Viserys started.  
“Arianne,” Elia said, tired, hoarse.  
“Alright sorry,” she said as though that settled the matter.  
Together, they made ‘cake’, mixing everything together into a big lump. Arianne shaped it into a cake shape – hitting Viserys’ hands away when he tried to damage it and earning a sharp scolding. Viserys’ new kitten, Fur, came in, and settled on Rhaenys’ lap. Casting a scared glance at Elia, Viserys petted the kitten to show that he had not harmed it. The very sight of kittens filled him with guilt ever since Ser Darry had brought in Jahaerys dead, even though Viserys had carefully hidden him in the cupboard. Ser Darry must have told Aunt Elia because she had cried to him about it when they had first met after Father said he must not meet the viper, and that had been the second worst day of his life other than the day Father had slapped him. He was a good boy now, and looked after kittens. 

The doors opened and his Father strode in. Viserys felt so sad when he saw his father now, he was so different and old. His beard was up to his belly and he was all shriveled up like the kitten he’d killed, bony and rangy. He missed the Old Times when Father would pick him up and swing him around and mother would kiss him on the forehead. 

Elia stood up, her chest full of trepidation as Aerys surveyed the scene before him. Rhaella, from behind him, looked afraid, her light eyes wide and glassy.  
Aerys’ face broke into a smile and everyone’s shoulders slumped in relief. Inaudible, mental sighs of relief filled the room. Arianne took a lump of the ‘cake’ and went to the king, holding it out to him, ignoring Elia’s panicked motions.  
“Do you want cake, your grace?” she asked, holding up the uncooked mixture to him. He laughed and hugged her to his knees, and she looked alarmed. He glared at Elia, who gulped down her nausea, a joyous predator’s smile unsettlingly like Rhaegar’s plastered on his face, “Cake, we’ll have! My wife is with child!”  
Elia smiled happily at Queen Rhaella, who gave her a small, sad smile in return. Aerys pulled Elia into a friendly hug, nails scraping her back, and then an alarmed Darry, as Selmy beamed from behind them. “There will be a feast tonight for my beautiful Rhaella,” he declared. “Bring the little ones,” he touched Arianne’s head gently.  
Then he looked up at Elia and his eyes narrowed, “Write to your husband and tell him to come. He has been away for long.” He turned to the door.  
My husband in name, Elia thought. It had been five months since they had spoken, and had exchanged only smooth, sliding glances, seeing and not seeing. She scarce knew where he was and what he was doing.  
When Aerys left, robes swishing, with a boisterous laugh, Rhaella stayed back in the room, closed the doors, held her hands, and told her.

\-----------

Elia wanted to laugh hysterically. She hid her laughter in stony silences. He had finally gotten what he wanted – his ice princess. Ice with ice. A sharp, cold pain twisted in her heart, but she would not let it maim her.  
Oberyn opened the doors and strode in briskly. Elia sighed and hugged him for a long while, taking comfort in his familiar smell and feek. Oberyn’s arrival brought joy, but it also meant he would take Arianne away.  
“Elia-“ he began softly, but she shook her head. They sat in silence, slightly facing each other on the bed, the tears still wet on her face. Thankfully, Arianne had turned her back to her and was going through her different sets of earrings. They watched as Arianne meticulously arranged all the chains she had already tried on in her vanity box. Arianne liked dressing alone, and often took several hours to. She had chosen a light golden chain with a ruby flower for the gown. Elia wiped her tears away quickly as she turned.  
“Hi, uncle Oby,” she said quickly because they had met earlier in the day. “Auntie, should I wear the red bells or the flower earrings?” Elia sniffed and brought her closer by her arms to look at the earrings, and Oberyn leaned over for a glance.  
“What’s your gown like, Ari?” Elia asked quietly, holding back her wavering voice, examining the earrings with more interest than she usually had.  
“I showed you just now,” Arianne said impatiently. She moved her chubby frame to the dresser and brought out a beautiful cream silk dress emblazoned with bright red roses. “Or should I wear the green paisley?”  
Oberyn made a face, “Don’t wear green paisley.” Arianne made a face back at him, and Elia smiled a watery smile, as Oberyn hugged her with one hand.  
“I look fat in the rose dress,” Arianne said.  
“No, you look pretty, and you are not fat,” Elia said sharply. “Now, get dressed,” she said, no longer sentimental, “It’s getting late.”  
“The King is so sweet, don’t you think?” Arianne said, making conversation like a little lady. Oberyn’s eyebrows shot up into his hair.  
“Hold your tongue," Elia said briskly.  
She stripped Arianne of her clothes and smallclothes and slipped on new ones. The cream gown fit her snugly, and on it went the rose chain and flower earrings. The dress lay loose about her waist.  
“Wait, I have a belt for that,” Elia said opening her dresser and fetching it. It brought her memories of Rhaegar, and the night she had perhaps conceived Rhaenys, when she had let slip her chance to make amends. Her actions seemed childish and petulant now.  
Fighting tears, she slipped the belt around Arianne’s waist, adjusting the hooks.  
“No, Arianne, not so tight, you won’t be able to eat.”  
Oberyn sighed and stood up, swinging his legs.  
“I will see you at the feast, sister.” Elia nodded at him, and returned to her task. Arianne held out the powder box to her.  
\----------  
The feast flowed with wine and excessive amounts of cake much to the childrens’ joy. In the middle of the feast, after having too much smuggled wine, much to Elia’s mortification and Oberyn’s amusement, Arianne stood on the table and screamed “This is the best day of my life ever!” Aerys had laughed and seated her on his lap for a while, during which time Elia nearly fainted in fear. Viserys and Rhaenys danced all over the near-empty Grand Hall, creating a ruckus, and onlookers speculated on whether they would make a better pair together than Viserys and Arianne, especially when the two had a lengthy fight about plants and cooking in the middle of the feast punctuated by Aerys’ loud laughter.  
With copious amounts of Dornish red and the stable presence of Oberyn beside her, all of this made Elia dreamy of the past, the distant past of her childhood, which seemed closer now that Rhaegar was far away. She suddenly turned to Oberyn, “I want Rhaegar to be happy, you know,” she whispered furiously, tears flowing down her cheeks.  
“Elia-“  
“I want him to be happy wherever he is. Life is so short, let’s all be happy when we live.”  
He nodded and looked at her strangely, “You’re drunk,” he stated simply. He pulled her up by the arm to her chambers, “Before you do anything you’ll regret,” he explained.

\---------------

There was a horrible commotion in the morning. The sky was the pink of wounded flesh, and a mill of knights and lords had clustered near the gates. There were about fifty of them, and a large, bearded man was screaming at the castle’s windows. Elia rushed down and out of the Holdfast to hear better, as the Golden company and royal guard led by the remaining Kingsguard rushed to the gate.  
“Rhaegar!” Brandon Stark was screaming, his voice muffled by wind and murmurs, steel and horse’s neighs, “Rhaegar! Come out and face me like a man! Open the gates, Rhaegar! Open the gates, and I’ll open you from head to toe!” Elia shivered. “Where is my sister Rhaegar?! Where is she, you dragon cunt?! Where is your son, Aerys?”  
The gate burst open and Ser Barristan Selmy spoke with Brandon Stark whose eyes held an anger that she had never seen in any man before, boiling, raving, wide in bloodfury. ‘You deserve it,’ she thought viciously at the wolf, ‘You deserve it for what you did to Ashara.’ She swept back into the Holdfast, pushing her quizzical ladies in waiting away.

\-----------

Oberyn met her in her chambers that afternoon when she was putting Aegon to sleep, and Elia rushed to him, eager for news.  
“What happened to Brandon Stark?” she asked.  
“He’s in the dungeons for treason against the crown, with a dozen of his sworn bannermen and men of the vale and– it’s a bloody mess,” Oberyn whispered, shutting the doors behind him and gliding in. “Aerys has a glint in his eyes I don’t like. Something is going to happen, I’m certain of it.”  
“Are they alright?”  
Oberyn glared at her, “It’s madness that’s what it is,” he murmured, “Rumour has it, Robert Baratheon will call the banners, if he has enough support. Because of your husband’s actions.”  
Elia felt defensive, “He did not mean for it to happen.”  
“Of course not, selfish as he is.”  
“He is many things, but not selfish.”  
“Raving mad?”  
“Perhaps,” she conceded, “Now what?” she asked, apprehensively.  
“The King has summoned Rickard Stark to answer for his son’s treasons. The old idiot better stay put and call for arms,” he took her hands, “We’ll ride back to Dorne with the children and fight against the bloody dragons.”  
“Aerys holds Jaime Lannister and Highgarden is undeclared, Oberyn,” Elia pushed his hands away, “The two wealthiest kingdoms. It would be unwise to make any moves now.”  
Oberyn laughed caustically, “I forgot my sister is far cleverer than me. Though I would give anything to remove Rhaegar’s head from his shoulders.” Elia merely shook her head. “You should too,” he breathed, “for the insult he gave you.” She shook her head sadly again and he held her by the shoulders, “Are you Dornish anymore?” he asked her.  
“I am a Tagaryen now, brother.”

\----------------

Two weeks later Rickard Stark arrived to plead mercy. He asked for a trial by combat.  
Aerys ruled that his opponent would be fire.  
Elia wanted to scream. She was being forced to watch, so were Viserys and Rhaenys, as Rickard Stark was burnt alive in his armour, the wildfire engulfing him, flesh sloughing off his body like wet grease. Near him, Brandon Stark choked slowly to death in a contraption as he struggled to reach for his sword to save his father, cruelly placed just out of reach. Elia closed to shut Viserys’ eyes with her palm, but he pushed it away, a smile on his face, eager to watch. “Traitors!” he screamed and Rhaenys whimpered.  
Soon, the figure in the chokehold grew still after thrashing wildly like a fish in its last moments, and his father was charred meat and bones. Aerys watched laughing, as Jaime Lannister, proud and golden, stood stock still, his eyes vacant. ‘He has escaped into his mind,’ Elia thought sadly, wishing she had the gift, for she had not watched the scene unfolding in front of her, choosing to screw her eyes shut, opening it scarce, hot tears flowing down her face, as Rhaenys burrowed her face into her gown. 

Once the court left, a sickly smile still plastered on Aerys’ face, Elia rushed to Brandon Stark as he was being carried away, presumably dead. She wanted to make sure his body was treated with respect. Suddenly there was a little movement she deducted out of the corner of her eye. It was near imperceptible – a twitch of his little finger. She followed the guards at a careful distance as they took him outside for a burial.

“Stop,” she cried, not too loud for the King to hear. “He’s alive!”  
Rhaenys jumped, “He’s alive, he’s alive.” Sure enough, he moaned and turned his head to the side.  
“Father,” he whimpered, “Lya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/feedback will be greatly appreciated! This fic is about to end, so I need the love!! <3  
> Also please do check out my budding work on Jaime and Cersei, where Cersei has dementia and Jaime helps her start afresh :)


	25. Tower of Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar and Lyanna in the Tower of Joy. Love and Separation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Wienawski's Legende

Rhaegar had felt it only in flashes during the journey, the sense of overwhelming guilt at abandoning his family to his father, while he was with Lyanna. Now, without a journey, without a destination, stuck within the four walls of a round tower, he felt it gnash its teeth within him.  
Where was Lyanna?

She strode into the room, a laugh on her lips, with his harp nestled in her hands. It was sparsely furnished but tasteful, with a large bed, soft-as-down, curtains of sheer Dornish silk, slightly moth-eaten, and paneled with dark, smooth wood. 

“Listen to this!” she yelped and made a funny twanging noise, pulling her fingers up the string while plucking it. He smiled weakly.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting next to him, touching her forehead to his. He was silent. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you happy, Lyanna?”

“Yes,” she replied, chuckling, “Of course.” She moved away from him gently, casting her eyes down, “Happier than I ever was.”

“I love you, Lyanna,” he said for the hundredth time. She smiled at him, holding his eyes, feeling as though it would rip her apart to keep staring into those indigo pools, but she kept staring. 

“I don’t believe you,’ she laughed, finally, awkward. Rhaegar saw that she was being impish today, their second day in the Tower. Their first day had been a drinking game with Whent that Rhaegar had participated in for the sake of his sanity, when news arrived of what Brandon Stark had yelled in front of the Red Keep. Lyanna did not know, and Rhaegar felt tainted from the secret he was keeping from her. 

“See, you already look unsure,” she whispered.

“Of course not,” he replied, kissing her crimson lips once softly. 

Rhaegar glanced over at her, dragging his eyes down her body, in the new fresh dress loaned to her that ill fit her, slipping to reveal a prominent collarbone, hanging loose about her thin waist, but tight at her ample breasts.

“Why are looking at me like that?” she whispered, a high, rosy blush rising up her cheeks.

Rhaegar snapped his eyes away, guilty. ‘She is only a child,’ he thought. 

Lyanna saw the guilt in his eyes and chuckled, her grey eyes like a moon reflected in water. 

“I know what you want,” she murmured, “It is what I want.” She unhooked her dress at the back and slid it above her shoulders in one quick motion.

Rhaegar did not look down, he only looked at her eyes that were gazing back at him unashamed. Unbidden, he thought of his first time with Elia, how she had looked determinedly away from him, ashamed as he drank in her body. Lyanna had none of that shame and he felt enthralled by her siren gaze, her grey eyes bright with challenge, one shoulder hitched up, pearl-white teeth biting her full lower lip. She smiled at his astonished gaze and climbed onto his lap, straddling him.

“Let’s make this fair,” she whispered, as he gazed up at her, awestruck.

She took a dagger from the bedside and ripped his tunic – 

\- and Whent appeared at the door, then hastily backed out.

“What?” Rhaegar growled, angrier than he ever remembered. A previously bold Lyanna had now quickly taken cover under the sheets, eyes wide, cheeks burning in shame.

“There’s a raven. You must hear this, - your grace,” he added.

“Now?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Now.”

\-------

The letter’s words blurred and reformed in his mind repeatedly, until he wanted to bash his head bloody against the wall. He could see the disapproval clear in Arthur’s violet eyes, and his friend had grown more and more distant from him. It was small things, the way Whent and Arthur took a split second more before obeying his commands as though weighed down by them, the way he oft caught them talking in whispers, eyes earnest and wide, the glances Arthur sent him that seemed to cut through his flesh with their accusations. Now two pairs of eyes skewered him alive as he set the letter down and rubbed his eyes. 

“Are you going to tell her?” Arthur asked.

Rhaegar stood up, wordless, and Lyanna came in, joyously uninformed. She was still fiddling with his harp. “I got it!” she said, “The song you sang at Harrenhal?” She plucked a rough version of the song on his harp, he felt the winds shift-

\- and he took the harp from her and threw it to the ground. The wood shattered to pieces and the strings splashed onto the floor in a single dissonant shriek. Lyanna flinched, afraid, shying away from him. Arthur quickly elbowed his way between them and stood in front of Lyanna, shielding her.

“You think I will hurt her?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past you. Leave the girl alone.”

“I am your prince.”

“Your actions are not worthy of a prince.”

Rhaegar moved closer, until he was face to face with Arthur, keeping his expressionless mask on, his voice commanding, the words spilling out of him surprising even him, “None of this would have happened if not for you and my wife.” 

Arthur glared into Rhaegar’s eyes and a heavy silence stretched between them before he murmured, “You know that is not true.”

“Then tell me what’s true.”

“I’ve told you, I’m tired of this. Let me make this clear to you Rhaegar,” he jabbed a finger into Rhaegar’s chest. “It is only because I honour my vows did I follow your foolish adventure with this child. But there is another honour I must keep. An honour that will judge my life in the eyes of men after death. If you mistreat this child, this time I will not watch.”

“I am not a child,” Lyanna whispered furiously.

Rhaegar bristled with rage, “So be it, Ser Dayne. You have my word,” he murmured. Arthur gave him a meaningful glance and Whent nodded in agreement.

Rhaegar gestured to Lyanna with his head, his pride wounded, his tongue tied at the unusual authority his friend had shown. “Lyanna, do you want to ride out?”  
She nodded, mute. 

She had a right to know.

\---------

Lyanna slumped against the tree, crying, her eyes red and swollen. 

“This is all because of me. How could he? How could he? The silly oaf. Rhaegar, Rhaegar, we have to kill the king! Call the armies, we’ll march on King’s Landing!” Rhaegar was still, expressionless. She could not understand. What she said felt perfectly reasonable to her. 

“Let’s go! We’ll join forces with those of all the houses that that -died. We’ll win Rhaegar! Brandon wouldn’t – he wouldn’t,” she sobbed, “Father wouldn’t -He wouldn’t have died for nothing-“ 

Rhaegar took her in his arms, comforting her as she convulsed against him. He wiped the tears from her face gently, holding her hands. It took her half the night to become the still sleeping mass on his lap, murmuring ‘Oh Brandon,” and crying from time to time, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

In the middle she woke and pleaded that she wanted to go to Winterfell to be with Ben, her hands clasped together, as Rhaegar looked at her sadly.

A little later, “Why won’t you fight against the king?” she screamed and pushed his chest, in mad bloodfury and the obstinate anger that came with her grief. 

“Do you really want to know, Lyanna?” Rhaegar asked, as tears began to flow down his face.

Lyanna glared at him. 

“My children,” he sobbed, “And my wife.”

Lyanna saw the meek, sobbing figure before him, face pink and ugly with tears. How did I love this man? -she thought. This is not a Dragon Prince. This is a coward who betrayed his vows. Ned was right. Oh Brandon, I am so sorry. Oh Father. 

He rested his forehead against the tree trunk, driving the tears away with determination on noticing her revulsion. Elia would hold him and wipe his tears away. Elia loved him.

Lyanna felt the dagger in her boots. She could use it now, put a red smile on his neck. Avenge her family. She was a Stark of Winterfell. She drew it out and pressed it against his long, marble neck, admiring the single bead of dark blood that trickled down on his grey-blue throat in the darkness, like blood on a winter rose. He leaned back against the tree trunk, and gazed into her nearly black eyes.

“This ends now,” she whispered, furious.

“End it,” he whispered, “Do it. I want you to.”

“You can’t have everything you want, Rhaegar,” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears as his eyes fluttered shut and his eyebrows knitted together. She flung her dagger away and kissed him. 

Rhaegar was surprised, but he kissed her back, because he would never not want ot kiss her. They moved in a primal rhythm together, natural, uninhibited. She straddled him near the tree trunk, rushing to remove the layers between them. 

“We’ll make a new life,” Rhaegar whispered, hoarse, “For the ones we killed.”

A choked sob rose in her throat and she put her palm on his face and bashed his head against the tree – it came away wet with blood. She clutched his tangled hair fiercely and took him in her for the first time. It burnt terribly, but she felt the sharp pain ease her mind away from guilt and sorrow. Rhaegar refused to look anywhere but her eyes. 

“Am I not to your liking your grace?” she gasped.

“I love you,” he replied.

“Liar,” she hissed, tears sliding down her face.

Rhaegar’s eyes slid down to her breasts, and she saw that he had snow-white eyelashes. She took him to the hilt and leaned close until her eyelashes mingled with his. He kissed each one of her breasts gently, and she moved with him slowly, shuddering and falling against him, as he held her up by her back with his strong arms.

Rhaegar saw beautifully chiselled arms, a muscled waist and rough riding sores on her thighs that he ran his hands over lovingly. She felt like a dream to him, her skin just as cold and smooth as his. He was captivated by her eyes. A million emotions flitted through them in a moment and he wanted to capture each one of them for eternity. He bit her lips gently as they moved slowly, joined together. After every stroke, she would lean forward and he would kiss her on her lips and she would whisper his name softly. Slowly, those whispers became moans. She guided his fingers to the top of her slit and showed him what she wanted. He slowly circled on the soft flesh of her nub, watching with fascination as the pleasure deepened in her eyes, making them beautifully glazed. He rubbed it gently, and coaxed low moans and short gasps that made her shudder over him, making him spill his seed in her.

She kissed his lips tenderly and slipped out of him. He wanted to scream at her for moving away from him, but her eyes were peaceful and blank. They slept together at the base of the tree, wrapped around each other as though afraid the other would run away at any moment. It was cold, but they did not feel it.

\-----------

They had a day and two nights together. Nothing more, nothing less. 

And she had slept half the day asleep in bed like a bear in winter, for which she wanted to hit herself. She had woken up in his chambers where Rhaegar must have carried her, still sleeping. She woke several times in her lulled sleep, but did not want to truly rise for the pain, guilt and grief she feared she would face.

Arthur stood at the door in the evening, calling, “Lady Stark?” She had woken with a start. “You have not eaten all day. The Prince calls you to sup with him.”

Lyanna nodded and dressed herself, as Ser Dayne waited patiently outside. When she moved out of the door, Arthur spoke.

“Lyanna, may I call you that? Are you well? Did Rhaegar-“

“I am well, thank you,” she replied curtly. Arthur reminded her of Ned, she bit her lips hard to forget the resurgent memory of her other older brother.

In the dining room, Rhaegar sat with his food untouched in front of him, dark circles under his eyes. She felt the pain between her legs begin to deepen and gazed at him lovingly, greeting him with a peck on the lips. They ate slowly together. Then, they sat, the crumbs between them as she sang to him shyly at his insistence, and he joined where he knew, their voices melting together, his sweet and high, her’s husky and deep for a woman. They tasted the wine on each others lips and she curled into him as she strummed the song he had played in Harrenhal for her and she cried into his neck when he finally sang it for her. 

“I love you. Forever.”

“I love you too,” he whispered. He bent down and kissed her stomach. “For the little princess growing in there,” he explained, and she smiled slightly at him, “Or prince.”  
“Or prince,” he agreed.

The night was harder than the day, because their fears and anxieties, grief and guilt, crashed onto them with the dark. Rhaegar’s chest was wet through the tunic from Lyanna’s tears.

“How is Arthur to you?” he asked softly, wanting to take her mind away from the sorrow. 

“Irritating. I hate him,” she whispered back, sniffing. He smiled.

“Did he ask you anything about last night?”

“Yes, I wanted to throw my slipper at him.”

“He has nothing but concern for you.”

“I want my father back.”

“Oh Lya,” Rhaegar whispered.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Only Brandon can call me that.”

They lay together silent. “I’m sorry, Lyanna.” She kissed his forehead and his lips and huddled with him under the sheets into an uneasy sleep.

Rhaegar watched her sleep, her eyes rolling under her eyelids and then stilling. Her mouth slightly open, her breaths falling evenly. He wanted to wake her so he could gaze into those storm-grey eyes one last time.

When dawn struck he slipped out of the bed. ‘Wake her’ his heart said, ‘She may not let you leave,’ his mind warned.

He listened to his mind. For once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters so far. I almost cried writing this.  
> I would love to hear any comments or feedback. Please do post them!


	26. A Final Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new love. A final chance.  
> 'Beware of missing chances, otherwise it may be altogether too late someday' - Liszt  
> Music: Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

Brandon Stark had the same eyes as his sister, Elia noticed, when he opened them a crack. She could not be certain, for they were bloodshot. He closed them again and Elia pressed the cold balm into the wounds on his neck, that had soothed from angry red to a deep, dull purple with her constant ministrations. She had never caught Rhaegar vulnerable and asleep like this. Elia sighed - no matter what, her mind always seemed to return, as if on a leash, to Rhaegar. 

Rhaenys seemed to take an intense interest in Brandon, who she called the wolf-man. “I want to marry him,” she had whispered to her with a certainty that made Elia pause in amusement, “He’s brave.” Presently, she was gazing at his face with affection and rubbing his large, rough, hairy hand with her small fingers, periodically cooing, “Wolf-man, wake up.” Then she would put her mouth to his ear and whisper, “Everything’s all right, wolf-man. I’m here for you.”

Elia ought to clout her daughter on the head, but she had no energy for that. It had been hard enough keeping this from the King – the man in her chambers- though he would doubtless soon know. It had been a day, and Brandon needed to wake. Now. 

“Brandon,” she whispered, shaking him, “Brandon.” He moaned and his eyelids fluttered. Rhaenys placed her face on top of him, “Brandon, wake up,” she whispered. 

“Rhaenys-“ She stopped, shocked, as Rhaenys kissed the Stark man, square on the lips, and his eyes flung open in alarm. She received a clout on the head for that, despite achieving the desired result.

“Rhaenys! Who taught you this!?”

“Viserys told me a true love’s kiss can bring a lady to life. Or a man,” she added as Brandon spluttered and tried to sit up, his eyes rolling in his head. “He kissed me in the gardens,” she remarked casually, and Elia grit her teeth in anger, but she was distracted in her attempts to make Brandon sit up. 

She was afraid he might try to escape or shout. “Where is father?” he asked furiously, his throat hoarse, voice broken, “Where is father?”

“Brandon, Brandon,” Elia quickly grabbed his rough hands, “Father is in a better place.” He met her onyx eyes, his eyebrows creased quizzically, but his Stark-grey eyes soon widened at the implication. He opened his mouth, but Rhaenys lay a small finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” she whispered, “If you shout, the bad men will come and you can’t find Lyanna.”

‘How much does this child know?’ Elia wondered. 

Brandon looked at Rhaenys in puzzlement. Then he looked at Elia, “Elia Martell,” he spat. “Where is your husband?” He was having difficulty speaking. The right half of his face seemed to refuse to move, making it look as though he was sneering. His right arm lay limp by his side. 

“I don’t know, Brandon. I honestly don’t,” she whispered, touching his hand. “Brandon, you must leave before the king finds out.”  
The doors opened and the king strode in. Uncle Lewyn and Darry grabbed both of Brandon’s arms on either side and Rhaenys screamed. The king grabbed Elia’s hair and flung her to the floor and kicked her, as she screamed. Brandon struggled nearby in the Kingsguards’ arms. Rhaenys placed herself between Aerys and Elia when Aerys raised his foot again.

“Stop, or I’ll tell father!” she screamed. Aerys paused, and turned, signaling to his Kingsguard, never taking his cruel eyes off Elia.  
“Let him rot in the dungeons,” he ordered. 

“Don’t do anything stupid and you may live,” she whispered furiously to Brandon when the king was out of earshot, and he slumped in the Kingsguards’ arms, exhausted. He looked at her curiously, at the blood at the corner of her mouth, her disheveled hair and the tears in her eyes, and nodded.

Brandon had never known women had large hearts. He had never met anyone like Elia before.

\-----------

Rhaenys ran to greet Father and he swooped her up. She pressed her face to his neck and smelt his smell – the smell of daisies. When she had told Mother that Father smelt of daisies, she had laughed. Father kissed her face and nuzzled her stomach and she giggled breathlessly. 

“You have to save wolf-man,” she told him, “You have to bring him back from the dungeons.” 

“Mm-hmm. Where is Aegon?”

Rhaenys stopped in front of him and frowned, crossing her arms. “You don’t care about me. You only care about Aegon.”

“Of course not,” Rhaegar replied, scooping her up into his arms again and carrying her this time, “I love my Rhaenys more than anything else in this world.”

“I love wolf-man, Father.” He hummed his two-note and went to Mother’s chambers, ignoring her again. She sighed in frustration.

Mother barely glanced up and her eyebrows creased when she turned back to her sewing. Rhaenys wanted to jump up and down screaming, Father’s here! Father’s here, but Mother was Angry with Father. 

Because she was Angry, Father was also Angry and Rhaenys was lowered to the floor from her height. “Where’s Aegon?” he asked. She gestured to the cradle with her head. Rhaenys lay on the bed, cradling her head in her palms, as Father spoke to baby Aegon and nudged his Small Nose with his Big Nose which was funny.

“Did you celebrate mother’s pregnancy?” Father asked Mother.

“There’s cake in the kitchens, if you want it,” she said curtly and sniffled which meant she was Sad and crying.

Wolf-man was also Sad because he wanted Lyanna. “Where is Lyanna?” Rhaenys asked Father and he paused stilling in his tracks, “Wolf-“

“Rhaenys,” he said quietly, eyes wide, “- Ser Darry can you take Rhaenys away? I must needs speak to my wife alone.”

“But, Wolf-man, Father!” Rhaenys said quickly, but Darry dragged her away.

Elia carried on with her sewing as though there was no-one in the room. Rhaegar wanted to grasp it from her hands and throw it out of the window.

He kneeled in front of her. “You know why I did it.”

“Did what?”

“Lyanna,” his voice broke because her name could not be tainted by uttering it in this place, Elia’s place. 

“Because I could not bear you more children,” she replied in a dull, flat voice.

“The dragon must have three heads,” he whispered, “Please, Elia. Understand.”

“Two is not good enough for Tagaryens it seems,” she said. She knotted the thread at the end of the line and held up the cloth. 

“The third dragon-head seems a bit off.”

“Elia,” he whispered.

“Yes, your grace,” she replied sarcastically.

“I ride to war.”

“And I will wait here while you ride to war for Lyanna Stark.”

He lowered his eyes to her lap and fingered the embroidery on the cloth. It was a red dragon stitched on a white cloth, with a sun rising behind it.

“Aegon’s pillow-cover,” she explained, her voice still flat.

He nodded and rose, “I must leave,” he said curtly. He paused at the door and looked at her one last time. She was perched at the edge of her bed, tiny hands curled into fists, curly hair askew about her face. She looked sad, weak, cowardly, a diminished version of the Elia Martell he knew. Or perhaps the Elia Martell he had never known. He turned from her and walked away as he had done his whole life. 

Tears stung her eyes, but she dug her nails into her palms until they receded. Whatever was to come, she would face it alone, strong and brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for the grand finale... (sobs)


	27. Last notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mozart's Requiem

The heat and the sweat and the stench of the battle overwhelmed him. A thousand men packed together made the air hot and stifling with their anger and desperation to survive. The clash of swords was deafening to his ears, and he could not understand how the bards called it the ‘music of clashing steel’. It was a terrible ruckus of agonized screams, thuds, neighing horses, clanks, and death. 

Rhaegar saw him on his monstrous destrier, swinging his warhammer which splattered fresh blood everywhere, bellowing in fury. Rhaegar caught the knight in front of him in the armpit only just as his sword glanced across his breastplate, cursing himself for his distracted state of mind. The knight fell to the ground and he left him in the already bloody mud to thrash out his short, sorry life. Lewyn was making short work of a squire near him, who looked piteously young.

‘This is because of me, they’re dying because of me,’ he thought. 

No, this is for the prince that was promised. This is for Aegon. The dragon must have-  
“Rhaegar!” the Storm Lord roared. Rhaegar turned, irritated. Who was this man and what did he want? Lyanna had told him they barely knew each other. 

“Rhaegar!” he screamed in a bloodfury, stomping toward him. He remembered the Storm Lord falling all over Elia at their wedding dance, drunk- with a slight smile on his lips. What was Elia doing now? 

Rhaegar never fought himself into a bloodfury. He was always calm, cool, rational. That helped him defeat his opponents- most of the time.

“For Lyanna!” the Storm Lord screamed his hammer descending on him. He moved away in the nick of the second, slashing out his sword to the side, but only catching the Storm Lord’s armour as he dodged away. He was faster than he looked.

Rhaegar thought of storm-grey eyes, perhaps weeping alone, without his arms to comfort her-

\- the hammer crashed on his destrier and he felt himself falling. Strangely, he was glad that he had not ridden Gold – his beloved Sand Steed – to this brutal butchery. He thought of kissing Lyanna on Gold. 

Focus, he told himself. It was strange, as if he did not desire to live anymore. As if something within him was broken. 

It was rough combat, and Rhaegar felt himself slipping into a trance with the jerky, desperate dance. Robert swung his hammer down with savage force and surprising speed and Rhaegar dodged him like a craven side to side. He aimed for his armpit, his neck, any crack in his armour, in vain.

‘I should have fought in the melees’, he thought, ‘jousting is no fucking use in real battle.’

The hammer knocked his sword away. Blackfyre. Valyrian Steel wasted on a craven. It crashed to the side.

“Fight like a man, Rhaegar!”

“Your Grace,” he corrected through gritted teeth, but Robert did not hear. The hammer descended on him and smashed the life out of his chest. Rhaegar dimly registered the rubies flying out of his breastplate.

“For Lyanna!” the big brute yelled.

He fell into the mud, next to the knight he had just killed, and felt excruciating pain. Numbness was beginning to take over his mind.

He saw a fair face with wild, curly hair, and rosy cheeks in the cold, laughing her deep, honest laugh. She had beautiful grey eyes that were a raging storm, and a million wars could be waged for them. 

Her eyes turned a liquid obsidian and he saw his own sadness reflected back at him from their depths. Small, doll-like lips smiled shyly at him. Curly wisps of hair hung about oak skin and a tear rolled down her cheek.

No.

A mother fell from a tower, her hair flowing behind her, the wind whistling through her skirts, arms spread out like an eagle.

Rhaegar shouted a woman’s name. 

\--------

When she heard that Rhaegar was dead, she wanted to take her children and run. But, she was trapped. Trapped like a bird in a cage. A fly in honey. A rat in a trap. Every night she dreamt of Rhaegar. His sad eyes gazed into the depths of her soul. Are you happy now Rhaegar? She would ask. Are you happy, your grace? He would smile slightly, still regal in death and he would ask for Aegon. He always asked for Aegon. Only if Aegon was alive and well did his life have any meaning. She would say he was well, he drank his milk and he slept soundly at night because he does not know that he is fatherless. He has you, Rhaegar would say smiling, and his face would break into a million pieces.

She was a liar. A liar through and through. 

 

Rhaenys knew. She knew that baby’s eyes were not large enough, its lips too big. The baby cried all the time, keeping them awake at night. It bit at Elia’s breasts and clutched Rhaenys’s fingers desperately. It wanted to leave the Keep. 

“My Rhaegar,” the Mad King had sobbed to her, “My Rhaegar. They killed him.” There had been burnings through the night. A Mad King on the throne, green fires dancing in violet seas, screams filling the throne room, his queen safely away in Dragonstone. “The viper will stay,” he had hissed, “with my son’s children.” But, one child had escaped him.

She rocked the child in her arms, cooing to it gently. Though it was someone else’s she had already grown close to it, but her heart ached for Aegon every time she looked at it – 

\- The door smashed open and a large monster in red and gold strode in. It grunted at her and tore the child from her hands. She screamed for Jaime, but it bashed the child’s head against the wall, again and again. Crimson blood leaked from the floor and walls, staining her gown. She screamed and screamed till she was hoarse, and scrabbed at the monster’s arms. It gripped her against the wall and Elia felt a pain as though she was being ripped apart.

She remembered Jaime Lannister’s dead eyes when he went inside. She went inside her mind. 

She was in the Water Gardens. She was playing with Arthur and Ashara, splashing in the water, throwing it at each other. She found a pebble on the bank and held it to Arthur’s eye. “It is the colour of your eyes,” she told him.

“No, they’re not,” Arthur said. 

When she moved the stone away, there were indigo eyes the colour of her pebble and Rhaegar stood in front of her, his pale hair in a fish-tail braid. “The dragon must have three heads,” he told her sadly. He held his arms out to her and she rushed into them. 

\--------

Rhaenys was Scared. But Father would protect her, he always said he would. So, she hid under his bed. But a Bad Man came, so she screwed her eyes shut.  
What happened next was too horrible for her to-

\----------

Brandon stumbled out of the dungeons, eyes adjusting to the light. One year in the dark, with scarce food and water. And no one but her. He was probably raving mad.  
Only one thing had kept him alive. Only one thing when they tortured him at the start. When they scraped, burnt, cut, and bit his skin with their instruments until he was hoarse with screaming. And then left him to starve alone, feeding on rats and drinking his urine. He could not tell which was worse. But, she had come in the nights–or so he thought, he could not tell nights from days- after a few days, or months- he could not tell. She had held up the fire that danced in her beautiful eyes and kept him alive with drink, food and words. He was not a fool, he knew what she was risking for him. 

She would gently drench the cloth in cold water, her small hands working fast and touch his forehead with the cloth when his fever came. She would only ask him simple things, whispering for fear of being caught: “How are you feeling?” “Did you sleep well?” “Don’t drink too much of the wine.” And he would nod or shake his head, tongue-tied.

Soon, he began to wish for things. He would imagine freeing himself from here, cutting down the guards, rushing to her chambers and asking for her hand. He would imagine their wedding in front of the Old Gods and then imagine himself explaining the Old Gods to her. He talked to himself a lot. Her face would flit into his mind all the time. He would play the events of her visits in his head to exhaustion, how she had smiled when he spilt the wine on his tunic. How she had given him fresh clothes and hastily turned when he had begun to fervently take off his old breeches in his urge to remove his lice-ridden dirty rags. How she held his face with her tiny warm fingers when she had first poured the water down in his throat, not revulsed by his foul smell or festering scars. How she had cleaned his wounds with patient hands, sighing and crying at how terrible they were. 

There was only one time when she had truly talked.

“Rhaegar did not mean to.” He had turned to her sharply as she lay the tray near him.

“He had his reasons for going away with Lyanna. Please forgive him.”

He looked at the savage message he’d written in a fit of madness on the dungeon wall, “Rhaegar, I’m coming for you,” in large childish writing. He took the sharp stone carelessly in hand and began to write her name next to it. He would tell her now, Seven hells take him. 

“He’s already dead,” she said softly, and left the cell, wiping tears, ignoring his gaping mouth. 

Now, he was free. He was running through the corridors of the Red Keep, fittingly drenched in the blood of raped servants lying face down and guards with their guts skewered.

He caught a Lannister soldier nearby, “Where are Elia Martell’s chambers?” He told him some gibberish which he followed partly, and was then lost. “Where are Elia Martell’s chambers?” he spat at a scared chambermaid who was mopping up blood. She pointed it out to him, stepping away from him, a scared expression in her eyes.  
He was lost again. It was the Keep. It was trying to keep him from reaching her. He opened the doors of every single room in the royal quarters in his desperation, running like a madman. 

Two Stark men stood in front of one of the doors. “Jory,” he panted. Jory gripped his shoulders, his eyes wide with shock and glee. “Brandon!” he yelled. The doors opened slowly, reluctantly. Ned stood in front of him, solemn, his eyes lined with worry. But when he saw his older brother, his face broke apart in a relieved grin.  
“By the Gods, you are well- “ he pulled him into a firm embrace, and Brandon dimly registered that his brother looked like a man grown now. 

“Where are Elia Martell’s chambers?” he asked fervently, when he hastily broke the embrace. Ned’s eyebrows scrunched together, and his eyes turned to steel.

“Brother?”

He turned sharply to the bed. Selmy was standing near it helmet in hand. There were two forms in the bed and it was drenched in blood. There was a little body under the blankets – of a child. Next to it was – he saw her curly hair peeking out of the covers on the pillow, swaying slightly in the breeze. He saw a face, ashen grey and pale, her forehead bearing a massive bruise. The covers over her body were drenched in blood and a maester stood near her, his head bowed.

Brandon’s knees gave away beneath him and he fell to the floor with a thud. He let out a howl of agony that shook the walls of the Keep.

\-------------

Arthur’s steel rang on Ned Stark’s greatsword. Ice and Dawn fought together. The Stark swiveled away from him and Arthur dealt his sword hand a sure blow. It struck Ice, which slipped from his hands, pitifully practiced as they were. A plain face and dull eyes stared back at him in shock and fear.

“Ser Dayne, let me see my sister,” he barked in a desperate last attempt, his chest heaving, his face lined beyond his years.

“The Prince’s orders were to protect -.”

Arthur felt a sharp pain shoot through him. A spear was lodged through the back of his neck and it withdrew from him with agonizing slowness. Something bubbled from his throat, drowning his last words. The crannogman, he thought with distaste. The time when men fought with honour was over. He fell off his horse with a deafening thud.

He quelled his fury at the men who had attacked them, as Ned Stark rushed into the Tower. He would not die resisting death. He would go with his honour intact, but for that he must stop thrashing first.

He stilled himself with difficulty and brought Elia’s face to his mind. Every man had something he loved and treasured to keep him through the battles, pain, waiting and worry. For him it was Elia’s gentle smiles and rare laughs, her wild stories and her smell of spice and nutmeg. Or so he fancied. 

But he could not help but think of Ashara. All this time he had wanted to ride his horse to Starfall for his sister, but he was tethered to the cruelly named Tower of Joy. How was she? Was she well?, he worried like an old man. His own purple eyes crinkled back at him, nestled in her long lashes, and her carefree laughs filled his last thoughts.

Ashara fell from the tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sort-of-sequel centred on Brandon/Elia is now up. It's called Princess in need, Princess indeed.   
> Two years after the Sack of King's Landing, Brandon is the new Lord of the Iron Islands and Elia is forced to marry him on the king's orders. She has to battle her fresh grief and horrid memories, while Brandon attempts to rule the rebellious islands. It's fluffier with more adventure, but also angsty. 
> 
> Special Thanks to biohazard603 for the constant encouragement and great analyses!


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